


Cruel World

by KaedeRavensdale



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Acute stress disorder, Alternate telling of WoD, Kidnapping, Loss of Innocence, M/M, Mental Torture, Mockery, PTSD, This is going to get pretty dark, Threats, a small handful of original characters, renaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-08 18:09:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14111085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaedeRavensdale/pseuds/KaedeRavensdale
Summary: Kidnapped by Garrosh Hellscream as a trophy of war, Anduin Wrynn finds himself held captive in Draenor as the ‘Prince’ of the Iron Horde. With everyone and everything he cares about held hostage under threat of death and destruction should he misbehave the young Prince determines the best course of action is to do whatever he has to in order to survive. He had no way of knowing how much that choice would ultimately change him.





	1. Prologue

Madness, that was what it was! Unthinkable! Impossible! And something that really should have been expected given their in hind sight inconsolably grievous oversight of failing to spare even a moment towards the creation of a force to deal with the allies of the deposed Warchief whom had managed to escape in the chaos of the Siege of Orgrimmar. They’d all been so focused on Garrosh and what he’d done and who had the most right to decide what was to be done about him that Zaela, the Dragonmaw Claw, a mad Goblin, a traitorous Mage and a zeppelin-load of mercenaries had gone entirely unnoticed until it was too late.

The Temple of the White Tiger was thrown into upheaval, fighters and simple spectators scattering in all directions, and during that time someone had slipped into the dungeons and freed the fallen Warchief from the chains he so rightfully deserved. But Varian couldn’t bring himself to concentrate on Hellscream’s escape or Jaina’s wounds or Kairozdormu’s sudden disappearance no matter how suspicious it was when he had far more pressing concerns: worried for his ill-chosen ‘friend’ Anduin had run off into the melee and had yet to reappear. Was he injured? Lying in the infirmary? Still out on the Temple grounds somewhere with broken bones or worse? Was he dead?

Three hours had passed and even with the madness having been taken into account the sheer number of Alliance personnel on the ground should have been able to have thoroughly searched the area by now. Word of Anduin should be coming at any moment now which was really for the best as Varian suspected he was just short of wearing a furrow clear through the stone floor.

Just as this thought occurred to him the door of the room swung open, revealing an SI:7 agent whose name he couldn’t currently be bothered to recall. The sharp gaze of grey eyes prompted the look on her face to go from ‘stricken’ to ‘prisoner awaiting execution’.

“The pirates and other mercenary grounds which attacked the Temple have been dealt with. Most of the Dragonmaw escaped on the Infinite Drakes.” She never strayed more than a few feet from the door and looked as if she expected him to pounce at any moment. “A small group of soldiers noticed that the Drakes were all flying in the same direction and followed them to a Mage portal. It seems that Garrosh-.”

“ _Where is my son?_ ” Varian’s voice echoed like thunder off the walls and the agent jumped three feet in the air. Yes, sure, the information contained in the rest of her report was important. They needed to find and recapture Hellscream before he launched another tyrannical attack but he couldn’t focus on any of that until he knew his son was safe. Thoughts of Anduin consumed his mind.

The agent’s face had gone as white as Stormwind stone; clearly, whatever information on Anduin she had was the reason for her reluctance to come any closer. Badly injured. Dead. Countless scenarios, each more horrific than the last, tumbled through his mind like stones thrown about in a rushing river and Lo’gosh shifted.

“M-My Lord, I’m not certain-.” Varian’s snarl made the woman cringe. “They saw him briefly at the portal, Sire. The Prince was unconscious though they couldn’t tell if it was on account of a sleeping spell or a blow.”

Unconscious. Unconscious wasn’t good but at least it meant Anduin was still alive. Relief surged through him for a brief moment before the implications of what she’d said dawned cold as ice. “What do you mean ‘briefly’?”

“They witnessed him being carried away through the portal just before it collapsed. We have members of the Kirin Tor working on the matter of tracking where it led to but so far they’ve had no success.”

Unconscious, alive but kidnapped. He very much doubted the situation could get any worse. All the matter had going for it was that pirate groups and mercenaries tended to be easily negotiated with for the right sum of gold; the sooner he knew who was responsible the sooner he could get his son safely home. “Which group took him? The Bloodsail? What little is left of Ravenholdt?”

“Not mercenaries, Sire. Or pirates.”

His eyes narrowed into another glare. “Then who?”

The agent seemed to steel herself before she told him “Garrosh Hellscream.”


	2. Chapter 1

Awareness returned slowly. He was lying on his back on the hard ground somewhere, warm sunlight on his face and thin shadows flicking odd shapes across his closed lids. Wind blew dry and cool, hissing through tall grass and carrying the scents of rock and earth and water. His eyelids felt heavy but after a brief struggle Anduin managed to force them open.

He was met with the sight of the vault of an open cerulean sky dotted here and there with clouds, their towering pillars of rolling grey-white stretching up and away far into the blue. His head felt as if it had been stuffed full of Westfall linen and he had trouble thinking straight enough to do much more than lay there. Wherever ‘there’ was. He wasn’t in any pain, wasn’t injured at least so far as he could tell at that moment in time, but he certainly did feel strange. It was difficult to pinpoint precisely why but he knew he’d experienced a similar feeling before; the needed connection kept darting away like a frightened goldfish every time he reached for it.

_What happened?_

It took an almost monumental effort to manage to do so but Anduin was able to force his mind into enough of an organized state to be able to focus and facilitate at least a partial recall. The trial! The attack! He’d gone to warn Wrathion only to discover he’d played at least some part in all of it! He’d said that they were friends and yet the whelp had turned on him; he should have known he would, he was a bloody Black Dragon!

But that still didn’t explain how he’d gotten…wherever it was that he was. The last thing he remembered was being knocked out by a sleeping spell. He hadn’t been found by his father or one of the members of the Alliance or Horde, nor by the Pandaren, because he wouldn’t have been left sprawled out on the ground if that were the case. So what had happened? Had Wrathion taken him with him on whatever crackpot scheme to ‘protect Azeroth’ he’d managed to dream up this time? It wasn’t something he was willing to put passed the other Prince.

Well, when he returned Anduin was going to give him the dressing down of his admittedly short life, that was for certain. And quite possibly at few well-placed smites and holy fires wouldn’t be remiss, his guards be damned, just to insure his message really sunk in. Hissing to himself about Dragons and self-righteous quests, beginning to feel the stiffness of his crippled leg return from being held in the same position for too long, Anduin sat up properly and looked around properly. He’d expected to see a campsite, or at the very least a fire, one or both of Wrathion’s guards and quite possibly even the Black Prince himself; was fully prepared to launch right into a lecture on the wrongs of freeing war criminals and kidnapping Princes, even if the latter action was marginally more in line with folkloric Draconic behavior, but the words died on his tongue. Anduin stared, confused.

No campsite. No packs. No fire or even any hint there had ever been one. Anduin was entirely alone, dropped amidst a sea of towering grass, and the only hint of the fact that hadn’t always been the case was that his Stormwind tabard had been shredded and folded up beneath his head.

Not Wrathion, then, but if that was the case who _had_ taken him to…here? The only thing that Anduin knew was that the culprit wasn’t a threat, or at least not an immediate threat, to his wellbeing-he strongly suspected he’d be dead if that weren’t the case-as they’d had plenty of chances to kill him while he’d been entirely defenseless. Perhaps they would become a threat in the near future or even the far one, but the first order of business was to negotiate with his leg and then attempt to figure out where on Azeroth he’d ended up.

He knew for certain, at least, that he was no longer in Pandaria.

Sighing, pushing his lingering annoyance over what Wrathion had done and concern over the outcome of the fighting at the Temple of the White Tiger aside, Anduin rested his hands against his knee and closed his eyes again. Quietly murmuring a prayer and directing the familiar warmth along once torn sinew and the mostly healed cracks in his bones. The pain was slow to ebb away and the question of just how long he’d been unconscious flitted briefly across his mind but was forced aside by the massive shadow which fell over him. His kidnapper had returned.

Releasing his grasp on the healing magic and allowing the warm glow to retreat Anduin turned his head to look and froze. Body instantly stilling as if immobility would somehow save him from notice, make him blend into the background or else completely disappear. He didn’t know what he’d expected to see, but it certainly wasn’t _this_.

Small golden eyes stared him down for a moment which seemed to last into eternity before Garrosh snorted and bared his teeth in the mockery of a smirk. “When he’s protected by guards and bars and chains the little lion speaks of his belief in ‘redemption’ and ‘change’. Once faced with an uncaged wolf he freezes like a rabbit. Pathetic. Not that I’d expect anything more from a Human.”

He’d thought that whoever had taken him hadn’t been a threat to his wellbeing and in a perverse sort of what he’d been right. Garrosh Hellscream was _a lot_ more than just a threat and that realization alone was near enough for Anduin to wish he was back at Onyxia’s tender mercies. At least the Broodmother of the Black Dragonflight would have killed him quickly by comparison.

“What’s wrong, boy? Nothing impassioned to say about being ‘nothing like Arthas’ and not wanting to ‘betray your Light ordained duty’. Did you lie when you said you believed I could change?”

It was difficult to find his voice, and when he did it was scratchy from disuses and the fear he was trying very hard not to show on his face but Anduin eventually managed to force out “did you lie when you told me you had no intention of changing?”

The Orc’s laughter sent a flock of birds rising from a nearby tree; they flew, shrieking, away into the sky. “I very much do intend to change for the better, little lion. Just not in your eyes.”

“Wha-?”

Anduin snipped his own words when the Orc’s fist shot out, nearly hitting him in the face and spraying him down with droplets of water which had been clinging to the outside of the swollen water skein which dangled from it. He looked from it to the former Warchief’s expectant gaze and back again in blank confusion.

Apparently he didn’t react fast enough because Garrosh growled and pulled the skein back, making an exaggerated show of drinking from it before flinging it at him. It struck Anduin in the chest hard enough to wind him and he wrapped his arms around it on reflex to keep it from hitting the ground.

“I have honor, brat, no matter how much I hate your kind. You spared me poisoning back in that wretched cell. I’m not about to use a coward’s weapon on a whelp who looks like he hasn’t the strength to lift a dagger.” He snarled. “You saved my life in the face of a dishonorable death and now I’ve returned the favor. Drink!”

Negotiation and diplomacy were his strengths, always had been, and Anduin knew full well that sometimes the best way to get yourself further along in a hostile conversation was the give in to some of the opposite party’s more reasonable demands. Fumbling for a moment with the strings on the mouth of the skein, Anduin took a shallow drink. The water was cold and stung against his chapped lips but it soothed his throat as it went down; he hadn’t realized how thirsty he’d been until he started drinking and before he realized it half the skein was gone.

He hadn’t meant to take his captor so completely at his word and the bewilderment on his face appeared to be some source of amusement to the Orc. After tightening the strings again Anduin attempted to hand it back, not knowing what else to do which wouldn’t risk angering the much larger male, but ultimately ended up placing it on the ground when Garrosh waved the attempt away.

“Ask your questions.”

“Why?” it came out without much thought but Anduin didn’t spare much time worrying about that fact. It would have been his first question regardless, if worded a bit differently. He believed that peace with the Horde as a whole was possible but that didn’t mean he was willing to sit pretty in the captivity of a genocidal Orc: there were certain things he needed to know, though, before he made an effort to escape if there was any chance that he’d succeed. Namely what Garrosh hoped to accomplish by having him as a hostage, where he was planning to go, who was with him and where they were. Once he knew those things Anduin could bide his time until a chance to slip away to the nearest Alliance, or even potentially Horde, settlement for help. “I think I understand your reasoning for not killing me-and thank you for that, by the way, I do appreciate it-but what do you get out of kidnapping me like this?”

“You think I want you as a hostage, Wrynn?” Hellscream snorted again. “Perhaps you’ll become useful later as a pressure point against your father but such things are only peripheral benefits. I already told you when I took you, little Prince: you saved me from death at the hands of your people and I’ve returned the favor by saving you from death at the hands of the Iron Horde.”

“Iron Horde?” Anduin repeated, furrowing his brow. “But what would you build this ‘Iron Horde’ from? You may have some support from the Dragonmaw Clan, but almost every race on Azeroth…” catching sight of the Orc’s returned smirk the Prince couldn’t help but wrinkle his features in indignence. “I’m sorry, is something funny?”

“You still think that you’re on Azeroth, little Lion? You’re not.” Garrosh seemed to find his growing discomfort incredibly amusing. “This,” he gestured grandly around them, smirk becoming more of a cruel sneer with each passing moment, “is Nagrand, home of the Warsong Clan. _My_ clan.”

“You took me to Outland?” Anduin would have cringed at the squeak which had invaded his voice if he hadn’t been consumed with the sudden worry that a Demon of some form or another would come leaping out of the grass at them.

“Not Outland, boy. Draenor. Back before those honorless Legion wretches attempted to use my people as their puppets.” The Orc’s golden eyes flashed at the mention of the Burning Legion, reminding Anduin simultaneously of the Elwynn wolves he’d sometimes caught brief glimpses of while headed into Goldshire and his own father in his angriest moments. “I’m going to save my people that dishonor, unite them under a proper Warchief and take my vengeance on your world. I’ll see Stormwind in ashes and your father’s head on a pike along with the other leaders of the Alliance and false Horde. You, however, will live.”

Draenor. United clans. Iron Horde. Garrosh intended to start _another_ war the likes of which Anduin had only read about in history books! It sent his mind reeling with horror and all he could think to do was give voice to the sudden terrible realization which had hardened like a stone in the pit of his stomach. “I’m a prisoner.”

The young Prince had no idea what to call the expression now adorning Garrosh’s face if it even had a name at all but it filled him to his toes with a sense of choking dread. “You’re much more than a simple prisoner, little lion.” Something Garrosh’s size should not have been able to move as fast as he did, but the next thing Anduin knew fingers thick as tree roots had hold of his chin. Applying just enough pressure to make it instantly clear how simple it would be to crush his skull like a bird’s egg. Sharp nails dug into tender flesh just shy of drawing blood and for a short, utterly absurd moment Anduin found his head filled with thoughts of Wrathion’s taloned gloves. “You’re my first spoil in a coming war. A pretty enough trophy, for a Human.” Still applying that dangerous pressure, the pointed nail of his thumb traced the large vessel running up the side of his neck, careless of his jumping pulse. Overwhelmed with a mix of fear and revulsion Anduin couldn’t help but shudder. “And what point is there in locking up trophies? They’re meant for showing off. For dangling in front of enemies. For displaying my dominance to those beneath me. Leaving you in chains to rot would be a waste.”

“And if I run?” it was stupid of him to say but some small defiant part of him which Anduin had little doubt had come from his father had risen up like a cobra and pushed itself to the fore before he could restrain it. He expected to be struck, at the very least, but the Orc only became more amused. His grin a bearing of sharp tusks and pointed teeth. Ice joined the stone in his belly.

“Little lion,” something about that tone raised gooseflesh along Anduin’s neck and arms, “I was hoping you’d have enough of your father in you to ask that.”

Without warning he was seized by the hair and yanked upwards onto his feet. His bad leg protested vehemently as he struggled to catch his balance and that, combined with the pain in his scalp wrenched a yelp of pain from his lips. Garrosh paid both that and his struggle to free himself little mind and dragged him a couple hundred feet into the tall grass before he threw himself down again.

Once he’d managed to recover somewhat from the pain Anduin opened his eyes and was swamped with a tide of fresh horror. Staring back at him, fixed and unseeing, was “Kairoz!” But how? Kairozdormu was a fully grown Bronze Dragon! Garrosh was unarmed!

“That’s right, little lion, I _did_ kill the Dragon; he was another in a line of fools who thought they could use my people as tools for their own gain.” He loomed over him, menacing, eyes the color of the fallen Dragon’s scales. “If I can do that, unarmed, to him I can do much worse to you. Ripping you in half would be simple, as would popping off your head or pulling your ribs apart one by one and removing your heart from inside. You don’t want any of these things?”

Hastily, wide eyed and well aware Garrosh wasn’t making idle threats, Anduin shook his head.

“You won’t run. I’ll see to it that you’ll always be wearing a part of him so that you won’t forget my warning. And if extra incentive is still needed, perhaps that little friend of yours can be hunted down as well. He’s only a whelp but you’re small enough he might be able to manage turning into a pair of boots.”

Wrathion. He was powerful, sure, and he wasn’t alone but Anduin had been told about how the Dragonmaw’s fortress in the Twilight Highlands; of how they’d mounted the wings and heads of full grown Black Dragons on their ramparts. Angry as he was and as little as the sentiment probably meant to the Dragon, Anduin regarded Wrathion as a friend and a close one at that. Threatening to kill him was bad enough but threatening to force him to wear a pair of boots made from his hide…? Anduin barely contained the urge to wretch, his eyes watering.

“I’m waiting for your answer, boy!”

He flinched away, bumped into Kairoz’s lower jaw and nearly leapt out of his skin. “N-No! I won’t run! I don’t have anywhere else to go! You don’t need to hurt him or anyone else; not for me! Please!”

You’ll behave?”

“Yes!”

“That’s yes _Warchief_!

His roar rebounded off a nearby mountain. Anduin’s vision blurred and he swooned, panic threatening to devour him. Alone. Alone on Draenor, a world and an age away from everything he knew and anyone that might try to save him. Held as the trophy of an Orc who’d dropped a three ton bell on top of him only half a year before, leaving him potentially crippled for life. He wasn’t even sixteen yet, though that threshold grew nearer every day. It was all too much and it took nearly all he had left to correct his words to the other’s satisfaction.

“Get up.” It was clearly an order and despite the intense feeling of vertigo which had overcome him and the now quite pronounced pain in his knee and hip Anduin tried to obey. He got about halfway there before his leg gave out and he collapsed back onto the grass with a whine. “Get. Up.” His second attempt was even less successful than the first and left him lying on his front, scrabbling desperately at the ground to no affect and internally cursing his body for betraying him. His heart raced and it was difficult to breathe. Black had begun to invade the corners of his vision. Eventually panic mounted to the point where his muscles seized up.

A growl from above him was all the warning he had before a massive hand closed around his scruff and lifted him from the dirt like a naughty kitten. Anduin barely had the chance to process the fact that his feet were no longer touching the ground before he’d been slung across one of the Orc’s shoulder. A more than mildly hysterical part of his mind made note of the fact that he probably weighed nothing next to the massive pauldrons Garrosh was used to wearing. The smell of sweat and dirt and Orc-unfamiliar, pungent and vaguely similar to leather-was overwhelming in his current state of near shut down and came dangerously close to tipping him over the edge. It was only the desperate realization that passing out was something he couldn’t afford that kept him from doing just that.

“Where are we going?”

“To the Dragonmaw; they’ll keep you in line until I need you. I haven’t the time to begin properly training you while convincing my Clan better of listening to Gul’dan.”

So he hadn’t even engaged the Warsong yet? Why? And what exactly did he mean by ‘train him’? Wasn’t terrifying him with threats to his loved ones enough? Subjecting him to the mental torture of knowing one wrong move would result in the death of not only someone innocent but someone he cared for?

No. Of course it wasn’t and that should have been obvious the minute Garrosh had threatened to make him wear Wrathion after he’d killed him. Hellscream hated Humans, hated Stormwind, and now he had their Prince at his mercy. Anduin had little doubt he’d be coming out the other side of this experience changed, if he came out of it at all. This might actually end up being his reality for the rest of his life.

Briefly, the thought that he shouldn’t have intervened in the Windrunner sisters’ attempts to poison Garrosh flashed through his mind. For that, even more than getting into such a predicament in the first place, Anduin hated himself: regardless of whether the Orc planned to turn him into a passive slave or some sort of weapon there was no point helping him along by harboring such thoughts.

They walked for what felt like hours.  In reality it couldn’t have been nearly as long, Anduin knew that, but between his wound tight state and the complete lack of any even vaguely familiar landmarks he had no way of knowing where they were or how much further they had left to go. It was a good thing that the deposed Warchief had decided to carry him rather than drag him or, worse, force him to walk because with the way his leg was hurting he wouldn’t be terribly surprised to find out the bone had come apart again at the point of shattering. He’d need to go back to using a cane, perhaps permanently.

The thought was depressing, though not as much so as the fact that he’d been kidnapped again. This time by someone he might not be able to be rescued from no matter how hard his father tried. And escaping himself wasn’t an option: it risked too much.

But that didn’t mean he was going to just roll over: though he might not be a warrior the way his father was Anduin wasn’t as weak as the Orc believed and he certainly wasn’t weak willed. He had the Light’s company and hope that someone, soon, would come for him. And that would have to be enough. He’d focus on survival until then, and survival meant cooperation and remaining as calm as possible. And that meant he needed to get his head on straight. Fast.

Easier said than done but he didn’t have another choice: it was better he make use of however long he had left before arriving at the Dragonmaw encampment to clear his mind and recall everything he could about Orcs, learned both through study and friendship with members of the Horde, which might be of any use to him. It wasn’t much, he didn’t know much of the Dragonmaw beyond the tales the Dwarves had told him and Garrosh had proven he was no normal Orc at least by Azerothian standards, but in the end Anduin managed to scrape together a need to control the fear he showed as much as possible while around them and to be mindful of ‘honor’, both as a dangerous thing to tread on and a potential shield.

His captor had given no signs of wanting him dead so he doubted he’d be thrown into the middle of the Highland Orcs to be ripped apart but Anduin knew better than the expect Hellscream to intervene if any of them tried to hurt him. Sure he wasn’t defenseless but striking back, something told him, wouldn’t be viewed as the cooperation which would be needed to come out of the matter as upright as possible.

Which wouldn’t be upright at all but at least he’d be alive.

It was the edge of darkness by the time they made it to the Dragonmaw’s encampment, the smell of burning wood and the harsh sound of Orcish voices reaching him a short period before Hellscream dropped him-none too gently but at least not on his head-onto the ground. Anduin couldn't suppress the heavy huff of breath which whooshed out of him at the impact. Laughter went up around the fire as he untangled his arms from his legs and dirtied clothing and pushed himself upright.

He’d seen green Orcs and he’d seen brown Orcs but he’d never seen black Orcs before and it was a brief struggle for him not to stare. The almost ashy tone of their skin made their eyes seem more menacing; their tusks sharper. He swallowed thickly and tried to convince himself he was only shaking because it had begun growing cold.

“Anduin Wrynn, Crown Prince of the Stormwind, and my first trophy of many to come.” Hard eyes speared into him. Not wanting to meet any of them and risk inciting a challenge Anduin stared into the fire. “In return for his assistance in thwarting an attempt at assassination I’ve rescued him from certain death in the coming march on Azeroth. You are to treat him as what he is: Prince of the Iron Horde.”

A Human Prince of Orcs? The idea was absurd and he wasn’t fooled for even a moment: if there was one thing which could be said about Garrosh it was that he knew how to mock his captives.

“Zaela.” There was motion to his left but Anduin kept his gaze focused right where it was. “You’re in charge of him while I’m gone. When I need him as a token to prove my claims you’ll be summoned.”

“Yes Warchief.”

“I want him measured and some of the rest of them to get to work on making use of the Dragon’s hide: I promised our little Prince here a cloak to remind him of what I’m capable of should he misbehave.”

A reminder was something he certainly didn’t need. He’d see what he was capable of when Garrosh had dropped the Divine Bell on him, never mind at the trial. He didn’t need to be wearing another when his leg served well enough as one but Anduin knew better than to argue. With a flurry of motion and a number of statements of such things as “Lok’tar Ogar” the group dispersed, Garrosh melting away into the tall grass while a handful of the Dragonmaw headed back the way the Warchief had come. Anduin suddenly found himself alone with the Warlord and her Clan.

Grieve-shod footsteps thudded to a stop directly in front of him, not quite blocking his view of the fire. “You speak, boy?” her Common was harsh and sharp.

Anduin nodded, looking up just long enough to meet her gaze in acknowledgement but flicking his eyes back to the fire before he held it long enough to be considered undue defiance. He’d save pushing boundaries for when more was on the line than his pride. “Yes.” His answer was in Orcish, and though he didn’t struggle with the syllables his accent was still clear enough to make him wince.

“You’re smart, boy. Smarter than your sire, though that’s not saying much.”

 _I have a name._ The thought bubbled up from the depths of his mind but Anduin bit down on it. Of course they wouldn’t call him by his name: that would denote the respect of something almost equal. No, they’d call him ‘boy’ or ‘little lion’ when they weren’t using his title to remind him of all he’d been ripped away from. Still, Zaela must have seen some flicker of the sentiment cross his face.

She grinned and though her tusks were smaller than Garrosh’s they looked no less lethal in the flickering light of the fire. “You’ll be given a new name soon, little Prince. A proper Orcish name. And there’ll be no more speaking of your Common pig tongue after that. I don’t doubt that the Warchief intends to put you to some greater use than just a pretty trinket so you’d best get used to living like an Orc.”

Maybe they would rename him, but he knew it would be anything but a proper title and doubtlessly up to Garrosh to decide. What would it be that they called him? Prisoner? Trophy? Slave, like Blackthorn had done to Thrall? In the end it didn’t matter because it was just another of the many things he’d have to endure. And likely one of the least damaging, in the long run.

“Until then we’re calling you boy, boy, and I don’t want to catch even the slightest hint of another complaint. Am I understood?”

Again, he nodded. “Yes, I understand.”

“You’d best keep understanding.” She growled, reaching into her bag and throwing a dried ration onto the ground in front of him. “We’re watching you.”

As he picked up the unappetizing wafer of what closely resembled loose woven hemp and brushed off the dust the question of just how long he’d been unconscious once more occurred to him. At least a day, it seemed. His stomach growled but he didn’t quite feel safe enough where he was sitting, dead in the middle of their camp with so many eyes on him, to start eating. Anduin knew he couldn’t just get up and leave, and that it would be incredibly stupid for him to try, but if he could just get out of the way of even a portion of the stares that would be enough.

 A brief glance around led him to catch sight of the quite pointedly out of place forms of a Blood Elf Mage and a Goblin sitting kitty corner of the fire to him. He doubted they’d be thrilled with his company but they weren’t Dragonmaw and that, at the moment, was more than good enough for him.

Attempting to stand led to a sharp flare of pain and an instinctual reaction of biting down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood. Hissing out a strained breath and shoving the ration block between his teeth for hands free transport Anduin commenced the mortifying process of dragging himself across the camp using only his arms and good leg, certain he looked like a half run over animal which hadn’t quite managed to be properly crushed by a passing carriage.

The Orcs roared with laughter at the sight, some pointing and others pantomiming an over-exaggerated rendition of his actions, but Anduin ignored them in favor of devoting his full attention to the task at hand. His arms were shaking with the strain, elbows threatening to give way at any moment, but he ignored them and kept going. Collapsing down beside the Goblin.

“Hey! Watch it, Human!” The Goblin made a point of scooting away.

The white thread-like substance making up the ration he’d been given was stained red where his tongue had rested against it and added a chalky taste to the tang of iron already in his mouth. “Sorry.” He hadn’t been within a foot of him but it was better not to start something.

The Blood Elf took in the sight of him with the arrogance rather typical of his race. “And here I was thinking I was involved enough to know the full scope of the plan. I wasn’t told anything about traitor Princes!”

“I’m not a traitor.” Anduin informed him after a difficult time swallowing a sand-dry mouthful of ration. “I had no desire to get involved with any of this but I don’t believe in underhandedly poisoning someone no matter what they’ve done. When Vereesa told me what she and Sylvanas planned I stopped Garrosh from eating the laced curry. I had no way of knowing it would result in _this_.”

“You’re in a better place now, kid.” The Goblin informed him with a casual wave of his hand. “Welcome to the winning side, Lion boy.”

“Do you regret it?”

Anduin looked reluctantly back at the Mage and found fel-green eyes boring unblinkingly into his. “Do I regret what?” he was playing dumb, knew exactly what the Elf meant, but clung to the brittle hope the Mage would drop it if he pretended otherwise.

No such luck.

“Do you regret not letting him die in that cell?”

“The Light calls me to attempt all in my power to sway those around me onto the right path. No one can change if they’re dead.”

“And if you’d ignored that ‘call’ just this once you’d be back in Stormwind right now but that isn’t what I asked.” The Blood Elf said. “Do you regret it?”

Rather than answer him, Anduin turned away to stare off into the night.


	3. Chapter 2

Anduin had been the only good thing in his life which had lasted longer than a few years, the only thing that had kept him sane and anchored in reality after the death of his wife during the stonemason’s rebellion; the only thing which had kept him going through years of fighting in an Orcish gladiatorial ring despite the soul-leeching captivity; the one thing in his life that he’d sworn to protect above all else and yet time and again he’d failed in doing so. Onyxia. The Twilight’s Hammer Cult’s attack on Ironforge during the Cataclysm. The sinking of _The Vanguard_ and Anduin’s subsequent disappearance into Pandaria’s uncharted wilderness. Shenqing. And now this. Garrosh Hellscream had his son, crippled and only fifteen, and the Light only knew what that monster was doing to him.

And to some degree it was his fault for having spared the Orc’s miserable life.

Varian had never known a longer night, and even failing to find the faintest trace of sleep didn’t spare him from the visions. Horrible thoughts of all the terrible things his son could be being put through even as he lay worthless in a bed while Mages scrambled to unravel a rapidly dissipating ball of yarn. Some of them were born from what he’d seen during the Siege of Orgrimmar, some from the hazed memories of Stormwind’s sacking and still others-the worst by far-purely spawned from panic. Every fiber of his body was pulled taught as a drawn bow string, quivering with pent up protective rage but without a target in sight on which to unleash it.

Once he caught up with Hellscream there’d be hell to pay and nothing in the Light or the Twisting Nether would save the Orc. He’d kill him with his bare hands if he had to. Rip him to shreds with his teeth and his nails, ‘justice’ be damned right along with the bastard.

Peeling his white knuckled grip from the strap of his left pauldron with pronounced difficulty, Varian finished putting his armor to proper rights and left his tent so quickly that he nearly trampled the Pandaren who’d been making his way over.

“Ah, High King, I see that you’re awake.” Beneath a concerted effort to sound pleasant Varian could easily sense the tenseness with which the attack had left every one of them. Under normal circumstances it wouldn’t have been something to which he devoted much attention but in his current state even the attempt at being jovial grated sorely on his exposed nerves. “The Mages claim they should have word soon. The other leaders of both Horde and Alliance have gathered in the Temple to discuss the matter. I was sent to alert-.”

“You’ve alerted me.” He didn’t stick around to hear the rest of what the Pandaren had to say, pushing passed him with little care for courtesy and rushing across the open expanse of rock where the numerous tents and stalls had been erected to provide the proceeding’s attendants with food and shelter and up the Temple’s stone steps. As expected the others had already gathered in the same by now familiar room where the trial had been held, though the divide between Horde and Alliance had become notably less clear: for the moment at least, they were united by a common interest.

Greymane glanced over as he entered, a profound sympathy displayed in his eyes which was almost too much to take. The Gilnean leader had lost his own son to the Forsaken when they’d invaded his people’s lands and Anduin, through exposure and his naturally affecting personality, had in many ways become a stand in for Liam. That look said _I know what you’re going through_ but Varian refused to believe it.

What Greymane knew was something far worse: he wouldn’t accept their circumstances were the same. Wouldn’t accept that Anduin could possibly be dead, despite who took him, until he was presented with undeniable proof. If there was any chance that his son was still alive Varian couldn’t afford to give up on him because that would mean abandoning the only family he had left to Garrosh forever.

And that would make him an irredeemable failure as a father.

“By now we’ve all heard what happened.” The wooden fetishes attached to Vol’jin’s armor clattered as the new Warchief stepped forwards. “Da Horde extends its condolences, however much or little dey might mean. Ya son, of all of us, deserved dis least.”

“Thank you, Vol’jin.” It came out worn instead of sharp, as it might have otherwise. The Shadowhunter nodded and stepped back, making no mention of what could have been taken as a revealed weakness.

“Good of you to join us, Wrynn. I’d have figured you’d want to be present for our conversation about your dear son’s prospects for survival.” Sylvanas’ red eyes met his glare unflinchingly for a drawn out moment before she jerked her pointed chin in the Tauren’s direction. “Bloodhoof here seems to believe Garrosh yet has some small, twisted sense of honor in his bald ogre head. If that’s true than we can reasonably assume that, at least for the moment, your brat is still breathing though I’ve little doubt he wishes otherwise.”

“What has the Crown Prince done to you to make you speak of him so hatefully? Except, perhaps, exist?” Tyrande’s eyes narrowed, dimming their pale white glow.

“If it weren’t for Wrynn’s whelp we wouldn’t be dealing with this matter! Hellscream would be dead if he hadn’t intervened!”

“Didn’ he want death back in Orgrimmar?” Muradin grunted.

“Garrosh wanted a glorious death as a martyr for his cause. To die honorably in battle as a warrior. Dying from poison wouldn’t be something he’d see as honorable.” Thrall stared at the hand he used to wield Doomhammer as he spoke, as if regretting having allowed himself to be talked down. “If its true Anduin spared him that dishonor Garrosh won’t kill him. But I fear he’ll do worse.”

Genn’s growl carried across the room. “What use is tormenting us with ‘fears’? Are you trying to leech even the faintest hope out of the possibility Anduin might still be alive?”

“Genn,” Varian barely kept his voice from shaking, “that isn’t necessary.”

“We must focus on the likely fact that he lives and devote our energy to finding him instead of fueling concerns over what might be.” Velen said. “I trained Anduin myself and know that he is strong in the Light. No matter what Hellscream does to him, he will endure.”

“He may even be able to bring this to a more peaceful end than would otherwise be possible.” Baine rumbled. “Garrosh’s heart is made of stone but Anduin is like water in how quickly his presence fosters fondness.”

“Water only wears away stone over years. I will _not_ leave my son alone with him for anywhere _near_ that long!”

“No one meant ta imply dat ya would.” The Warchief said. “But many of us in da Horde have been touched in some way by ya son; he’s more hope than any other that dis war might end one day. Naturally we’re involved in da matter of recovering Garrosh already but if ya’d have da aid with finding Anduin as well an getting him home safe we offer dat.”

Sylvanas’ fully audible scoff made it clear not all of that aid would come willingly.

“I may be the High King of the Alliance, but I’m not the Alliance’s only leader. As much as the Horde’s assistance would hasten Anduin’s return I must consider my other responsibilities.”

“You’re foremost responsibilities are as a father; anyone who’d attempt suggesting otherwise had best not do so where I can hear them!” Genn’s yellow glare dared one of them to speak up.

“I don’t believe we’ll ever be able to truly get on with the Horde,” Tyrande said, “and they still have much to answer for but Anduin is innocent and this might spare him sooner. None of us would begrudge you that.”

Though it was clear none of them were particularly pleased with the matter-Mekkatorque was openly glaring at Gallywix; Muradin had his arms crossed over his barrel chest; Velen wasn’t looking at the Horde, but simply watching Varian’s expression twist, waiting-none of them disagreed. The High King let out a heavy sigh and nodded. “Very well, Vol’jin. With assurance that my son will be safe during whatever brief time in Horde custody he may spend, the Alliance accepts your offered aid. But nothing more can be done until the Mages have some idea where that blasted portal went.”

“The Mages have some idea of where that blasted portal went.” Sunlight streamed in behind the disguised Dragon, backlighting his hair deep sapphire.

“Kalec.” He hadn’t expected the  former Aspect to remove himself from Jaina’s bedside until she’d fully recovered from her injuries. Then again, perhaps the Archmage had set him on the matter: both the potential loss of seeing justice done for Theramore and Anduin’s kidnapping would have been strong incentives for her to do so.

“King Wrynn.” Kalec nodded before turning his gaze to the rest of the room. “There were a number of portals launched off from that location, but the Kirin Tor has managed to determine which portal Garrosh Hellscream-and Anduin with him-took. Khadgar has already gone through but the re-opened portal is still useable to those of you who wish to personally join in the hunt.”

Varian, Thrall close behind him, was out the door a moment later. The Dragon’s footsteps, along with a second set, fell in behind them but he didn’t bother to turn his head and see who it was. The gentle clatter of arrows in a quiver was hint enough.

“This way.” They were led around the side of the Temple of the White Tiger and over to a partially concealed outcropping in the rock. As promised, a portal hung in the air: a swirl of pulsing bluish magic, a vague image of green hills visible on the other side.

“Where does it lead?” Sylvanas drawled as they came to a stop. “Where is it, exactly, that the buffoon ran off to to hide?”

“Sylvanas-.”

“I owe him no respect, Orc! Not after what he did to my people during the Cataclysm. Certainly not after this.”

Ignoring the pair, Varian turned to the Dragon. “I’d like to know where it leads as well.”

“The Twilight Highlands,” Kalec told him, “though we’re not certain that’s where he stopped.”

“The Dragonmaw.” Grey eyes narrowed as Thrall and Sylvanas stepped passed him and through the portal. “It makes sense he would go there, at least briefly. How briefly is the question.”

The Dragon nodded, grim faced.

Something large landed behind them with the flutter of wings and the click of talons against stone. “A word before you go, High King?”

“Red Crane.”

Kun-lai’s cold wind rustled Chi-Ji’s white and red feathers as the Celestial balanced on legs as thin as reeds. “I’m not certain you know this, but Anduin trained with me briefly before the Sha of Despair broke free of its confines. And it was largely down to him that I was excised of its influence. I’m fond of him, to say the least.” The Crane clicked his black beak. “As long as there is life there is hope, no matter how dark the night may seem. You must hold on to that, for falling to despair means losing him forever.”

That the Celestial would feel the need to approach him at all was yet more evidence of Anduin’s astounding ability to impress himself on the hearts of those around him, but it was little reassurance. Words were fine; blessings did wonders in some situations but he was a warrior and what he worked best with, understood most, were iron weapons and battle strategies and he didn’t want to risk the portal collapsing on him.

Able to read the set of his shoulders, Chi-Ji dipped his neck and spread his wings. “Good luck.” He said. “Please, when you find your son, let him know that he’s welcome at my Temple any time he wishes.”

“Varian.” There was a warning in Kalec’s voice.

The King of Stormwind acknowledge his word with a nod before turning back to Chi-Ji. “Thank you, Red Crane. When I next speak to him I’ll let him know.”

He stepped through the portal, the Blue Dragon just behind, and Kun-lai vanished from around him.

Slowly his surroundings came back into focus, accompanied by the fuzzy static sensation unique to portal travel. The sky was a dusky violet-blue, choked with clouds like silver fingers. Sparse pines sprouted over a grassy hill, butting up against a jagged face of grey rock. Dragonmaw Fortress loomed in the near distance and beyond it, further along the narrow strand, the towers of Highbank were visible.

“Their fortress is empty.” Kalec said, gravel crunching underfoot as they began to walk. “It seems that the whole of the Dragonmaw Clan remaining after the Siege followed Garrosh to wherever he’s gone. The other portal is just over here.”

“Another portal?” Varian’s lips curled into a snarl. “Where did this one go? How far has he run?”

“When I left they weren’t quite certain.” The Dragon said. “Khadgar should have determined at least something by now, but I’m afraid there won’t be much in the way of specifics. The Arcane threads will have dispersed beyond the point where such would be possible. But it’s something, at least.”

“Better ‘something’ than ‘nothing’.”

‘Just over here’ turned out to mean a half mile away from where they’d ended up. Khadgar, Atiesh in hand, stood with two other Mages by a gathered outcropping of rocks. Thrall and Sylvanas had already arrived.

“Varian.” Khadgar didn’t mention a word of what had happened and for that much he was grateful, but the look in his eyes told the King all he needed to know: the Archmage was well aware his son was missing. “I’m afraid I don’t have good news.”

“You couldn’t find where he went?”

“Not quite that.” Khadgar said. “Garrosh and his allies seem to have taken a second portal to Nagrand. But there’s…”

“There’s what?” he hissed. “Hellscream has taken my son to _Outland_ Khadgar; putting aside entirely who he’s with, the only more dangerous place he could have been taken is the _Frozen Throne_!”

“I’m not certain that he was taken to Outland.”

“Nagrand-.”

“Is in Outland, yes, if it’s the Nagrand of this reality. This timeline. But that may not be the case.” Kalec’s tone had taken on a disturbing delicacy. “The signature left behind by this portal seems…odd somehow. And, unlike the one back at the White Tiger Temple this portal was created with Draconic magic. We’ve reason to suspect Kairozdormu had some hand in the escape as well, though neither I nor the other once Aspects thought the Infinite Dragonflight could possibly have this kind of power.”

“But there’s a possibility he’s run off back to his shattered world?” Sylvanas said. “Perhaps in hopes that the Mag’har would protect him? Let him hide behind them like a scared child.”

“There is a chance.” The reluctance in Khadgar’s voice revealed how small a chance it truly was.

“Then it must be pursued.” Varian’s tone brokered no argument. “I will not waste time attempting to chase a Bronze Dragon through the time ways if there’s even the slightest possibility that both that animal and my son are right under our noses!”

The Blue gave a resigned nod, giving ever sign of having expected that response. “I’ll portal us to Shattrath, then. Garadar should be reached with fair enough ease from there.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“I don’t need your help, Thrall!”

Sylvanas observed the budding argument with a venomous smirk. “Do you even speak a word of Orcish, Wrynn?”

“I speak enough.” He snapped.

“To what? Accuse them?” Thrall shook his head. “You’re a great warrior, Varian, and understandably upset but the Mag’har are proud-more so than I think you can imagine-and all that rushing in to demand they turn over a war criminal and captive they may not even be harboring will result in is unnecessary bloodshed. I won’t attempt to dissuade you from seeking them out or from being present for the conversation but please let me do the talking. It will be better for everyone involved.”

Varian bared his teeth again but backed down. “Fine.”

Apparently disappointed things hadn’t devolved into a scuffle, the Banshee Queen scoffed. “While the two of you are of on this fool’s errand I’ll return to the Temple and inform the others of your…exploits. I’m certain that this matter has left them all _hanging_ in suspense.”

“Don’t rise to that.”

Shooting the Orc a glare for the unsolicited piece of needless advice, Varian followed him through the second portal.

He’d never set foot in Outland before that moment but didn’t currently have the capacity to pay anything enough attention to commit the sights around him to memory. If any of the passing inhabitants called out to either of them he failed to catch it. It seemed to take a small eternity to reach the Flight master and procure each in turn a Gryphon and Windrider. In a flash of violet light, Kalecgos shed his half-elf appearance and rose from the city’s broken streets.

Rare as it was that he got away from Stormwind Keep, especially in more recent years, flying was normally an activity which he immensely enjoyed but Varian found no relief in it now. “How long before we reach this ‘Garadar’?”

“About an hour’s flight.” Thrall replied. “It isn’t terribly far from the mountains separating Nagrand from Terokkar.”

Not too terribly far, but far enough to make the ride a miserable affair of mounting anticipation and certainty that by the time they arrived Garrosh, if he was there, would be well prepared to strike back: the Blue Dragon just above them was large enough to see for miles!

As it was by the time they did arrive no such preparations seemed to have been made, though it was plain from the circling patterns of the areal guards that they were being closely observed. Garadar was primitive in appearance even for an Orcish settlement, with wooden walls dirt roads and buildings which looked to have been built from mud bricks or clay. Strange designs, vaguely resembling stylized flames, had been painted in red onto some of the walls.

“Well,” Varian said as they dismounted in the tall grass some yards away from the village entrance, Kalecgos resuming his smaller form, “they certainly know  we’re here.”

“Yes.” Thrall said, already headed towards the beaten dirt road. “Unless trouble kicks up this should end quickly in a peaceful manner.”

Catching the brief glance the other sent him Varian snorted, resisting the powerful urge to reach for Shalamayne’s hilt. “I’ll behave as long as they do.”

Kalec didn’t speak, but over the hissing of the wind through the grass he could have sworn he heard an exasperated sigh.

They reached the road after a handful of minutes more and turned to head for the village’s open gate. Without the shelter of the towering grass he felt incredibly exposed. Approaching a settlement of otherwise enemies from the front and with the eyes of an uncomfortable number of Orcs resting heavy on him, the need to draw his blade became almost irresistible. It was only thoughts of Anduin, of the circumstances he was in and the peaceful action he’d been urging if he was there, that held Varian back from acting on it. Even as they passed between the guards, mounted on growling wolves, and entered the village itself.

They were approached almost immediately by a Mag’har Orc with an axe in one hand who exchanged terse words with Thrall-of which he caught a few phrases such as ‘we don’t mean trouble’, Garrosh’s name and something he knew to be disparaging directed at Hellscream-before reluctantly showing them to one of the larger buildings. Here, he was met with the sight of a female Orc whose age was difficult to discern: though not quite as bad as Elves, Orcs were one of the harder to guess at races when it came to age.

Another long conversation was had between them in which Garrosh’s name was brought up a number more times along with a variant of ‘criminal’ and the phrase ‘he’s only seeking his son’s safe return’ which ended with the Orc woman shaking her head in what might have been an apologetic fashion-it really was impossible to tell-and Thrall returning.

“Well?” he demanded.

“We shouldn’t  talk about this here.” The Orc said. “Best we not strain their patience by lingering for too long.”

Growling to himself and by now having begun to resent the turn the day had taken toward him being consistently lead around by some form of carrot the Varian stalked after Thrall out of the village with the Dragon not far behind.

“Let me guess,” he hissed once they’d gotten some short distance down the road, “they don’t have him.”

“And they don’t know where Garrosh is. They haven’t even seen him.” Thrall said. “There’s nowhere else in Outland that Garrosh would go. If he isn’t here…”

“Then he must be somewhere, some _time,_ else.” Gritting his teeth and beginning to pace, heedless of the fact that he must look like some cage-mad animal, the High King dragged a plated hand over his scared face. “The past. The future. Some alternate timeline entirely. There could be thousands of those! We’ll never find that bastard! I’ll never find…”

“There may be one last option.” Kalec said, “though I’m not certain it will amount to anything.”

“Spit it out, Dragon!”

“The Wyrmrest Accord is still in effect.” He said. “I can take you to the Temple; it’s unlikely Nozdormu will be there himself but an ambassador of the Bronze Flight will be. They’d be able to bring him an appeal for help.”

More Dragons. More _Bronze_ Dragons so soon after one of them may have led to this matter in the first place. Any more stress and Varian was certain his head would explode. “How likely is an appeal to work?”

“The Infinite Flight were, at least peripherally, involved.”

 _Artful dodging._ Varian glared. “That isn’t what I asked.”

The Blue was silent for so long that the King began to think he wouldn’t bother answering. “Unless it’s undoing damage caused by the Infinite Dragonflight, Nozdormu prefers not to involve himself or his Flight in anything which could be considered as purely ‘mortal affairs’.”

“But there’s a chance?”

A mirthless smile tugged briefly at the corner of Kalec’s lips. “There’s a ‘chance’ of everything, High King.”

“I’ll take the mounts back to Shattrath.” Thrall said, stepping away into the grass. “Good luck.”

Varian grunted in response.

“Three is an impressive number of portals for a non-Mage to travel through in one day.” The attempt at levity fell flat on its face but neither man nor Dragon acknowledged the fact as the portal shimmered into being.

The first thing to become immediately evident on passing through it was the Dragonblight’s biting cold, and then the Temple formed before his eyes: a mix of dark stone and burnished metal, illuminated by glowing orbs of light affixed to braziers on the walls.

“One of the Red Drakes will take you up to the top of the Temple, where the Ambassadors gather, or if you’d prefer I can send the Bronze Flight’s stand-in for Chronormu down to speak with you.” Varian’s eyes flicked briefly to the nearest Red Drake, making momentary contact with its amber stare, and all he could think was _Dragons!_ No doubt catching some shadow of the thought, Kalec nodded. “I’ll speak to them.”

For something as large as the once Aspect was, it was astonishing how quickly Kalecgos could disappear; vanishing in the blink of an eye with only a flick of a crystalline tail. The Drake which had been looking his way had rested its head back on its taloned forepaws but hadn’t broken its stare. Even if it wasn’t a member of the Black Flight Varian very much doubted he’d ever be truly comfortable around Dragonkind and it was only with a pointed effort that he forced himself to turn his back on it. Staring out across the ice and snow instead.

White. Palest blue. Dull grey. Broken occasionally by the dip of a Dragonshrine or the heave of a massive bone breaching up from the frozen landscape. Gelid wind hissed against the coarse snow and tugged at his hair. It wasn’t terribly much to look at but he forced his gaze to remain on the horizon until the sound of wingbeats resumed behind him.

Turning back, he was met with the sight of Kalecgos and an unfamiliar Bronze Dragon which was entirely dwarfed by the Blue beside it.

“The Spellweaver has told me why you’ve come here, Human.” It’s voice was pitiless and business like. “There has been an escape and a kidnapping aided by the Infinite Flight and you came here hoping for our help. Where it is regrettable to hear, there’s nothing we can do for you. There has been no interference with the time ways.”

“No interference?” Kalecgos sounded shocked by the suggestion. “I’d thought I’d sufficiently explained things atop the Temple but clearly I was wrong. With Kairozdormu’s aid-.”

“The Orc managed to escape into an alternate time way of some form. Yes, Spellweaver, I’m aware.” The other Dragon cut him off. “The charge of the once Aspects, and we their Flights in turn, was to protect our given portion of _Azeroth_. Unlike your predecessor, we do not attempt to meddle in other worlds or timelines beyond our sphere.”

“You’re just going to dismiss this?” Varian snarled, voice tapering off into a growl which made another few Drakes raise their heads to look over. “Without even consulting the Lord of your Flight you’re going to fly back to the top of this Temple and leave my son to suffer the Light only knows what fate? He’s only a child!”

The Bronze hissed, raising itself to its full height and mantling its wings. “Bringing this to the attention of the Timeless One would be of no benefit. You’d receive the same answer: we don’t meddle in timelines beyond this one and we don’t interfere in mortal affairs. It would be a waste of time and wasted time, even for us, cannot be retrieved.” Swiveling its horned head around to glare at Kalecgos, it said “you brought him here, so you deal with sending him back to wherever he came from!” and flew away.

The former Aspect sighed, violet eyes falling on his tensed stance and clenched fists. “I’m sorry, Varian.” He said. “Both for you and Jaina, and Anduin as well, I wish I could do more.”

“You’ve done enough. More than enough.” The effort of forcing words through clenched teeth was nearly too much. The clasp on the golden compass only gave way with considerably difficulty, flipping up to reveal the portrait hidden beneath the lid. “I’ll get him back, Kalecgos. I’ll get my son back, one way or another.”


	4. Chapter 3

Two days had passed since he’d last seen any signs of Garrosh and tense nerves from the Dragonmaw’s constant staring had blended together with pain from his irritated leg which refused to fade no matter how often he attempted to heal himself and stagnated attention from restricted movement into a detached sort of listlessness. At first Anduin had done what he could to distract himself from the reality of the situation by talking to the Blood Elf and the Goblin whom he’d since learned were named Thalen and Harrowmeiser, but they could only tolerate his company for so long before they tired of him. After that he’d done his best to keep moving, ignoring the raucous laughter which kicked up every time he did, until the constant friction had chewed through the fabric of his pants and further dragging of his lamed leg would have meant cutting himself open on the uneven ground. When that had happened he’d tried to retreat into the sanctuary of the Light but the unrelenting sensation of being watched left him unable to slip into the meditative trance which would have passed hours by with ease.

Anduin had given up on matters of distraction entirely at some time around mid-day and had spent the better part of the last three hours curled up on the ground and staring into the fire, shifting on the off occasion to bring his leg into a slightly more comfortable position. The fire crackled. He could smell ash, smoke and dirt. A small pebble dug into his cheek, just below the curve of his jaw bone, but he couldn’t be bothered to expend the energy required to remove it.

“Get up, boy.” By now he could recognize Warlord Zaela by her voice. Pushing the almost overwhelmingly deep ache in his bones aside and forcing his arms to move, Anduin raised himself into a mostly upright position. “The Warchief has sent back word of his progress with the Warsong Clan. They require proof of his story and he requests the appearance of his little trophy.”

Anduin knew full well that it was anything _but_ a request. It was a demand. He was to be paraded in front of the Orcs his captor hoped to convince to follow him as a trophy of war. A prop in his story of conquests and glory which left out the truth that he’d been imprisoned for actions which were nothing short of terrible and had had to flee to have any chance at freedom. “How am I to make it there when I can’t walk?” He hadn’t heard or seen even a trace of any mounts in all the time he’d been there, there was nothing nearby which he could use as a cane, and dragging himself even the length of a pasture would take the better part of an hour. “I doubt the Warchief wants the impression having his prize drag himself into town on not quite all fours would give.”

“You being dragged is precisely what the Warchief is hoping for. But it won’t be you who’s doing it.” Zaela snapped as a pair of burly grunts stepped up behind her. “Agokal and Resh have volunteered to be your royal escorts, ‘your majesty’. You’ll never want a Stormwind footman at your hand after you’ve experienced them, isn’t that right boys?”

“Yes, Warlord.” The first bared his tusks and leered at Anduin. “Well show the Iron Prince how royalty ought to be treated won’t we Resh?”

The second chuckled darkly in response. As the pair advanced on him Anduin had to force down the urge to flee which flared to life inside him-not that efforts at escaping would have been in any way effective-focusing instead on controlling his breathing. _Don’t show fear_. He reminded himself once again. _There’s nothing Orcs respect less than a coward. As long as I have that much going for me I stand a better chance of lasting long enough to make it through this._

Large coarse hands closed around his upper arms, grip tight enough to bruise and make his bones creak. Unable to suppress a sharp intake of breath as he was hauled into a parody-and a poor one at that-of upright, he bit his lower lip bloody to quiet a yelp when the sudden change of position caused the bones in his lamed leg and bad hip to grind together. With his ankles bent at an odd angle and his pulse thudding against the pitiless grip of the Dragonmaws’ fingers, the skin above and below where their hands lay on him flushed red with blood, he was towed forward at a brusque pace.

Anduin made a concerted effort to pull his good leg beneath him and attempt to transform being schlepped like a box at harbor into a slightly less undignified hop but the Orcs holding him were moving too fast and his lamed leg conspired against him, its weight preventing him from being able to stretch himself far enough to manage it. After narrowly avoiding giving himself a twisted ankle Anduin allowed his body to slump forward in defeat and hang limp in Agokal and Resh’s grasp. The position strained his elbows and shoulders, twisting his arms up and behind him at an angle which threatened dislocation. Eventually, though, the restricted motion and unnatural position caused his limbs to go numb.

 _If things keep on this way I’m going to lose a limb._ Most probably his leg, considering the fact that it had begun to revert back to the state it had been in just after being broken. It had taken professional healers with many years more experience than him months to get him back to the point where he could walk without a cane. Anduin knew how to heal flesh wounds and stop bleeding, how to treat some illnesses and the proper method of making an antidote for the venom of the water snakes native to the Krasarang Wilds but was well aware that his own injuries were out of his range of ability to treat. Which was why he could do nothing but marginally ease the pain no matter what he tried.

With any luck at all, and he dearly hoped he had some left, things wouldn’t come to that. Even if the only alternative was dragging around a leg which would never be able to support his weight again, it was better that than experience an Orc’s take on amputation. Garrosh would, no doubt, be all too pleased to assist him in lopping it off.

 _I’d rather chew it off myself._ The thought bubbled up from the haze of inadequate sleep, mild hysteria and the insistent press of encroaching hopelessness that Anduin had thus far been successful at beating into near nonexistence. His healer instincts paled at the thought of doing so, as it would ultimately be more painful more drawn out and more damaging; the only thing it had marginally going for it was that he could trust himself not to ‘accidentally’ cut off a bit too much.

The fact that he’d even thought of it was probably a sign he was starting to lose it.

A troubling sign if that was the case. He remembered, somewhat fuzzily, what Velen had told him about the nature of the Light and the Void. About the dangers which Priests especially could face when put into extended periods of forced focus on survival. Survival, to which the Void was linked; where it coiled sweetly with primal instinct like a great black serpent waiting to sink its fangs into his soul when desperation reached its peak and the shadows broke free. Overwhelming the unwary and dragging them down into madness before they even had the chance to dig in their heels. The same madness as had afflicted the Black Flight for ages. As what the Old Gods were only a small part of. After the events of the Cataclysm he wanted no part of touching the Shadow, no matter how long of a pole was offered for his use.

The Light meant hope, courage and comfort. Altruism. Helping others. The Void meant panic, despair and doubt. Hard logic. Selfish preservation.

Maybe being less kind, less giving, less passive would be of more help in getting through the circumstances he’d fallen into but Anduin didn’t want to risk the changes, many of them permanent, such a decision would bring about. Didn’t want to give his captor the satisfaction of seeing him fall, in some ways, like Arthas had. And, most of all, because he couldn’t bear the thought of giving up the Light because that would mean truly losing everything that made him who he was.

What point was there in keeping himself alive when it came at the cost of existing ever onward as an empty shell?  Survival wasn’t meant to be an indefinite state. Perhaps that was why the Shadow drove its users inevitably mad.

 _I may not be able to avoid it._ But he would try. Would fight desperately not to lose his grip and lose his way. To be sucked into the Void. _I’d rather die because I held onto the Light than live because he broke me._

Anduin would willingly bend as far as he had to in order to get back to Azeroth, to spare his father another loss, to protect those people he cared for whom Garrosh had threatened with harm, but he _refused_ to crumble apart in the Mag’har’s massive hands. Even if it proved to be impossible to change him, and it was starting to look that way, Anduin was determined to teach him that submission didn’t have to mean defeat.

Draenor wasn’t Azeroth and with the way the mountains shattered the horizon it was difficult to tell but from the apparent position of the sun when they trotted to a stop he’d have pegged the time as somewhere around an hour before nightfall. His pant legs were ripped and stained with dirt and blood from the cuts which had opened along his exposed skin, radiating a dull burning sensation which made a sickly pairing with the ache in his bones. Anduin had all but lost track of his arms.

“Look up, boy.” Zaela’s demand was sharp.

Anduin’s neck cracked as he raised his head, squinting against the pale rays of the sun shining from behind the fortress built into the side of a hill. Giant towers, decorated with the jutting white tusks of what he suspected were Elekk and topping with tapered flags, stood vigil over Nagrand’s rolling emerald plains. A sturdy wall, built from the sharpened trunks of trees as thick as marble pillars chained together and hammered into the ground, encircled what portions weren’t closed in by sheer faces of sandy stone. Posted astride the huge gate hung from a pair of spears twice his height, were red banners baring a snarling white face.

“Grommashar, seat of the Warsong. The most powerful Orcish Clan to ever be: the _Warchief’s_ Clan.” There was something about the snapping of the flags in the wind which left Anduin feeling on edge. “I expect even a Human is able to appreciate the privilege he’s receiving by being allowed inside.” Directing her yellow glare to Agokal and Resh she snarled “don’t keep Hellscream waiting!”

The dragging resumed and the tall grass finally fell away behind them. The ground slopped upwards. The packed-hard road was rutted from wooden wheels and the constant passing of the massive paws of the riding wolves but was free of roots and pebbles, which came as a relief (if a small one) to the friction burns and cuts on his leg. Massive boulders breached up and over along the left shoulder of the path, rising and falling like the ridges down a crocalisk’s back.

Grommashar Hold was even bigger inside than it looked from outside, the districts split up by more walls of lashed together wooden posts; some upright, like the walls outside, and others offset at an angle like the sharp teeth of a beast. The buildings reminded Anduin of what he’d seen in Orgrimmar but seemed somehow more savage, their roofs studded with more tusks which gleamed razor sharp in the late day sun. In the near distance, hung from an arch which wind and water had eroded from the face of a cliff, were five massive Warsong banners.

Wolves with black and white pelts milled about like free range chickens, sleeping in doorways and pawing at the ground. Most barely cracked open an eye to look at them but a few paused to sniff the air and one, attracted by the smell of blood, bounded over and had to be fended off. Seeing Zaela shooing away a massive angry canine while under the judgmental gaze of the Warsong Orc it probably belonged to might have been amusing if it weren’t for the fact that he’d come far too close to being eaten for his comfort.

Most of the Warsong Clan had gathered together at the central most point of the Hold; the very peak of the hill which Grommashar had been built around. At its center stood a throne which looked to have been crafted from the stump of a giant tree: set like guards to either side of it were a pair of boulder sized braizers full of burning coals which cast strange shadows on the skull hanging from above it which looked big enough to have belonged to an ogre. Stood in front of it were Garrosh and another, slightly taller Orc whom Anduin didn’t get much time to look at before he was thrown to the ground at their feet.

Thick fingers grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head up with so much force his spine almost snapped. His eyes welled up and he had to blink rapidly to clear his vision. Not Garrosh, like he’d expected, but the other Orc. Half of his long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail and the other half was left to fall around his harsh wind burned face. Rings of metal pierced his broad, flat nose and one of his long fangs. Tattoos, much like Garrosh’s, swirled across the tan skin of huge shoulders and he wore a strange assortment of leather and plate.

“What is this ugly thing?” the Orc demanded. “And why have you brought it here?”

“That is a Human, one of many native species to Azeroth. Proof that my claims are true and of the conquest before us if we reject Gul’dan and his Demon taint.”

“Conquest?” the one still holding him snorted before releasing Anduin with a sound of disgust. “I don’t need to know what a ‘Human’ is to see that this is  pup! Not only that, he’s wounded. If they’re all like him a march on the world you came from would be a _slaughter_ , not a conquest. And there’s no honor in that.”

“They aren’t all like him.” Garrosh said. “This runt isn’t much to us but his father is the greatest warrior born to their world. A man with the soul of a wolf who stands near as large as an Orc. And I’ve taken from him what matters most: he’ll fight with everything he has to get his whelp back, and his death alone will be enough to make our march on Azeroth worthy of calling a conquest.”

“So the boy is a trophy? You’ve questionable taste.” He said. “If they can’t be used to strike fear trophies are meant to be pretty and he can’t manage even that.”

“Humans aren’t much for the eyes. Most are scrawny and they all have small teeth.” Anduin kept his eyes on his hands and tried not to acknowledge the fact that he was being discussed like a piece of meat at market. “For his race he can be considered among those who set the standard for ‘attractive’.”

Another grunt. “If his father will fight for his return he’ll fight to avenge him. Why should we keep him alive?”

Anduin’s shoulders tensed, gunmetal eyes flicking to the axe held in the Orc’s hand. This world’s version of Gorehowl, free of Sha corruption and with its sharpened edge catching the light. He swallowed hard. Feeling a burning golden gaze resting heavy on his back he looked over at Garrosh. The Orc’s features twisted into a more than memorable amalgam of reluctance and disgust.

“Because he saved my life. I owe him his, Gromm.”

The Warsong’s leader growled. “We understand honor, Garrosh. Anyone worthy of being called an Orc would say the same.” He said. “But he’s more than just a trophy, he’s alive, and living things require food. Water. If you truly wish to join us, unless he has a use, he’ll have to be put down and as crippled as he is-.”

“I’m a healer!” Feral eyes focused in on him. Forcing down the urge to quail under the glare, Anduin raised his head higher and said “I’m lamed not mute and am, as you’ve by now realized, quite fluent in Orcish. I thought I’d relieve you the burden of having to defend me, Warchief.”

Garrosh curled his lip but didn’t otherwise react; though he’d come dangerously close, Anduin hadn’t quite managed to cross a line. Gromm chuckled, the rings in his tooth rattling together. “Perhaps appearances are a bit deceiving. He may not be able to lift a blade but his tongue is sharp as one.” He said. “Brugoch, get Shadepaw. We’ll see if he’s truly a ‘healer’ or not.”

One of the Warsong broke away from the group and ran off back towards the Hold’s lower levels. Uncertain of what to expect Anduin couldn’t help but shift in discomfort, scuffing his bad leg against the ground. He didn’t have to wait long before the Orc returned with a wagon behind him, pulling down the badly injured wolf inside. The poor creature let out a pitiful whine at being jostled and squirmed as it was moved.

Anduin dragged himself the few yards which separated him from the animal with visible caution; Orcs and Wolves might get along like water and Murlocs but he wasn’t an Orc, nor anything the wolf would be able to recognize by scent, and one had already attempted to attack him. Despite knowing that he didn’t have a choice if he was going to stand any chance of healing it, he didn’t want to get within snapping distance. The wolf’s fur was stained red and matted down with blood and deep scratches had been cut along its spine and flank. It would die without help and was clearly in considerable pain. In the end, sympathy won out.

Pulling himself into the space between the front and back legs of the suffering wolf Anduin reached out with shaking hands and rested them as gently as he could on the animal’s side. Ignoring the small squeak it made and the way its bloody fur slid through his fingers with a sickening squish. He’d never treated an animal before, nor worked on something so severe.

 _Looks like both of us are depending on the Light’s mercy._ Taking a deep breath to center himself as best he could he closed his eyes and forced his mind to clear. Reaching into the warmth nested in his chest where the Light rested and feeling it respond. Rushing to his fingertips. Stretching softly across the shivering wolf. Investigating abraded flesh and filling the wounds cut into its skin. Deep and thin, carved by something curved and narrow. Claws, but not those of another wolf. Feline. Large: at least the size of a lion. On the wolf’s right flank, hidden from his sight, was a bite inflicted by canines almost as long as his forearm.

 _What sort of monsters live on Draenor that could do this?_ Hopefully he wouldn’t be finding out the answer to that question personally.

Switching focus from diagnosis to treatment Anduin set his attention first on suppressing and then stopping the bleeding. Shoring up perforated veins and arteries before moving onto the torn muscle tissue around it. Pulling the fibers back into their proper alignment and knitting them together in a fashion which would be sturdy but remain elastic was a difficult and taxing process. More than once he nearly slipped up and made an improper connection. Sweat plastered his fringe to his brow and stung his eyes; he blinked it away as best he could, unwilling to risk destabilizing the spell by moving either of his hands away.

By the time he’d moved on to closing the skin and fading the scarring Anduin had cycled through his repertoire of healing prayers so many times that his tongue had gone numb and his mana fizzled low. Unable to hold the Holy Magic to his will any longer despite the scarring still being pronounced Anduin allowed the gold glow to flicker out as he sagged to the ground.

The wolf was on top of him before he could properly land and with barely enough strength to keep his eyes open he had little choice but to allow it to lick the sweat off of his face. Hopefully it was an expression of thanks instead of an expression of its desire to eat him because it was approaching the size of a horse.

“Get the pup some water. And, Brugoch, control your wolf before it licks his face off.”

Anduin couldn’t tell who spoke, everything around him having gone out of focus. His face was covered in slobber. A cold, black nose was pressing into his cheek where that uneven pebble had before. Hours? Days? He couldn’t properly recall how long ago it had been. The wolf’s eyes reminded him of his father.

“Get back! Shadepaw!” The giant canine was pulled off him by its owner. Anduin was hauled back upright by hands which, from the tightness of their grip, belonged to one of his ‘escorts’. His head lolled back. A clay cup was shoved into his face. “Drink.”

Mouth and throat dry as bone and feeling more dehydrated and weak than he could ever remember having felt before Anduin attempted to inhale and swallow at the same time and ended up breathing in water. The Orc holding the cup quickly moved it out of range as he pitched to the left, ripping himself from the hands of one of those responsible for keeping him propped up, and proceeded to attempt to spit out his lungs. The coughing fit ended when one of the Dragonmaw thumped him hard enough on the back that his chin bounced off his chest and his teeth clicked together.

After allowing him a few gasping breaths the cup was brought back into his line of sight. “Slowly.”

Nodding clumsily and struggling to see through his watering eyes, Anduin reached up to place his hands on the cup as well. The clay was cold and damp. His fingers overlapped with the Orc’s in places, pale and barely a third as thick. It only gave him the illusion of controlling the tilt of the cup but that was enough. He forced himself to drink slowly.

“Gul’dan expects us at nightfall, Garrosh.” The growl had returned to Gromm’s voice. His grieves clinked against the dusty ground. “Will you and your…allies be ready by then?”

“More than ready.” Garrosh told him. “The Warlock will soon find himself paying for throwing in his lot in with the Legion.”

The water had helped him clear his mind enough to properly focus on his surroundings but his mana was still critically low and it was difficult to stay awake. The Orc, Brugoch, pried the now empty cup from Anduin’s less than powerful grip and set it down beside him.

“I’ll take the pup, Gromm.” He said. “He doesn’t look well.”

“The Human belongs to Garrosh.”

“Perhaps he does, but Garrosh has responsibilities beyond him to see to and its plain this boy needs care. I’m getting up in years and haven’t much else to do; I’d welcome the distraction.”

Gromm grunted and looked over at Garrosh. “It’s up to you.”

“I don’t need to be concerned he’ll run.” Garrosh said. “If the old man wants to care for him while he’s here it makes no difference.”

The Chieftain of the Warsong Clan nodded sharply and turned his back on the older Orc. Brugoch turned his full attention to Anduin and after pulling one of the Prince’s thin arms around his shoulders, lifted him back onto his good leg. When Agokal and Resh lumbered closer, he narrowed his eyes. “What are you two peons doing?”

“We’re the Iron Prince’s escorts.” Agokal sneered. “Warlord Zaela put us in charge of his care. Told us to make sure to treat him right.”

“And you’ve been relieved of those duties by my Chieftain, in who’s Hold you’re staying. I advise you to remember that.”

“Certain you can handle him, old timer?” Resh snorted.

“Wolves don’t lose their teeth with age, ash-skin. Keep this up and you’ll find that out long before he does.” Without further ado Brugoch hoisted Anduin up onto Shadepaw’s back and began to lead the wolf away, leaving the two stunned into silence Dragonmaw behind them.

The wolf’s pelt was thick and plush and Anduin buried his face in the small patch which wasn’t thick with half-tacky blood. It was soft and warm, like the fur-lined cloak his father only rarely wore and of which he’d been so fond as a child. Its gate was rolling and steady and did little to help him stay awake.

Anduin didn’t know how far from the top of Grommashar Brugoch’s home was or even what level of the Hold that it was on. When Shadepaw trotted to a stop and crouched down the Orc lifted him off its back and helped him to limp into the house. He could smell herbs and smoke from a low burning fire and, below them both, the iron tang of blood but was far too tired to satisfy the curiosity which would otherwise have been there.

“Not much further. Only a few more feet.” The aged Orc guided him to a pallet of furs and, with a surprising gentleness, pushed him down onto it. “I know you’re tired but you can’t sleep yet; we need to get your mana back to a less dangerous level or you may not wake up. Talk to me. What’s your name?”

“I’m told I’ll be renamed.” Anduin mumbled, blinking up at the ceiling in a futile effort to bring it into focus.

“All the more reason to tell me.” Something clattered from beyond his line of vision. “That stranger, Garrosh, claims your father will fight to get you back. Spirits willing he’ll succeed. Until then, you have to remember who you are; don’t let anyone take your identity from you.”

“Anduin.” He said. “Wrynn. Prince of Stormwind. Of the Alliance.”

“Tell me about Stormwind.”

Tell him about Stormwind? But that was such a long story. And he was so tired. It was hard to think. “Don’t want to.”

“You need to. Tell me; tell anyone who will listen; tell yourself if no one will. About your city, and your father, and your Alliance and your world. Everything. You must hold on to everything you can.” Dried herbs rattled together as the string which held them came undone. A stone pestle thudded against its stone mortar. “Tell me about Stormwind. It doesn’t have to be a comprehensive history, just describe it. What it looks like. Where you spent most of your time.”

“It’s a grand city, all built of white stone by masons. But they rebelled afterwards. It was violent.”

“Why?”

“The nobles promised to pay them, but after the city was finished they didn’t. Because a Dragon convinced them not to.” He said. “They rioted. My mother was killed when they started throwing stones. I was still a baby at the time…I don’t remember her. My father became a bit overprotective afterwards. I spent most of my life in the keep.”

“And where were you when you weren’t in the keep?” Brugoch returned to the pallet he lay on and held out another cup, this one filled with a strong smelling blue liquid. “Drink this.”

As before Anduin was allowed only the illusion of holding the cup himself. The elixir was herbal and foul, its offensive flavor reminding him of that of mana potions only much stronger. After successfully forcing himself to swallow he resumed talking. “There was a lookout point near the docks that I’d go to. I could see the ocean there. Smell it in the air. Look out to the horizon. Watch the ships sail away and imagine I was on them. … I’ll admit to having a bit of an adventurous spirit. I suppose I have spades of adventure now.”

“Perhaps at too high a cost.”

The Prince hummed, no longer fully aware of what he was saying.

“Where is Stormwind?”

“Elwynn Forest.”

“And what is Elwynn Forest like?” Green and lush with towering trees and clear lakes populated with troublemaking Murlocs. With cold rivers and wooden bridges and mounted cadres patrolling the roads. With Goldshire and its bustling inn and friendly residents. Anduin tried to speak but could no longer form coherent words. He must have made some sort of face because Brugoch chuckled. “Rest, Anduin. From the way that you’ve been treated already, you’ll come to need it.”

As the Orc moved once more out of sight exhaustion overwhelmed him, pulling Anduin down into soft darkness. He dreamed of sunlight slanting down through emerald trees.


	5. Chapter 4

He was shaken from a dead sleep by a large warm hand and dragged his eyes open to find Brugoch looking down at him. Anduin’s entire body protested against the movement as the Orc propped him up against the furs, screaming for more rest, but he was too tired to voice anything more than a nonsensical groan.

“You’ve only been asleep for about an hour.” Brugoch answered his unasked question. “If I had any power over the decision you’d be left well alone until at least morning but that stranger wants you present for Gul’dan’s capture and Gromm is listening to him regarding matters surrounding you. I’m sorry, Anduin, but you can’t sleep any longer.”

His body attempted to sag to the left. He kept himself half-upright with the weak resistance of one numb arm. Fighting to focus his bleary vision. A slight weight pressed against his lap and he looked down: rough clothing, a cloak and the shaft of a spear with the blade broken off.

“You stand out too much in those clothes. With that hair. Even mixed in amongst the Warsong and the ash-skins there’s no guarantee he won’t notice you: Warlocks have terrible powers.” Brugoch said. “They won’t fit you, but they’re clean. I’ll give you a chance to change: quickly or they’ll drag you off again.” Without giving Anduin the chance to formulate a question Brugoch exited the room, the pelt hung across the door falling into place behind him.

The young Prince blinked a few times, struggling to get his mind to catch you up to what was going on around him, then looked down at himself. Dark pants torn to ribbons where they’d dragged across the ground, dusted and smeared in dirt and the edges of the rips stained in blood. The fabric on his wounded leg had been cut away at the knee, the scratches and burns tightly bandaged while he’d been unconscious. If Anduin hadn’t already known his shirt was white the color would have been indiscernible beneath the thick layer of stains from the grass mud and blood which had splattered it. A number of buttons were missing, leaving it oddly rumpled and full of more creases than an antique map. His pale chest showed through in places. His tabard had been shredded and left behind days ago.

 _What a state._ He thought, pawing clumsily at the string left behind by its absent button. _If the Stormwind nobles were to see me know they’d be in fits._ The women would call him a fright. The men would likely scold him for not looking as an Heir should. And his father…his father would be on a war path for the responsible party. His eyes burned but he held back the tears and busied himself with the process of fumbling open the remaining buttons before pulling his shirt free. Unraveling the clean one from the bundle and replacing it; it was like wearing an ember silk bag. Anduin knew that, since his injury, he’d lost a considerable degree of the muscle mass he’d had and that even after getting it back-if he ever did-he would still have a bit of filling out to do but he’d need to have his father’s build-and he knew he never would-to stand a chance at making the shirt even begin to approach something close to ‘fitting’. The neck was so wide it almost fell off his shoulders.

Removing his pants proved to be a much more difficult pursuit: he had to maneuver his lamed leg out of its shortened pants leg first before he could pull them off completely. And pulling the new ones on while unable to stand of his own devices required quite a bit of maneuvering to achieve.

 _Another person could fit into these with me!_ Holding up his pants while simultaneously relying on a makeshift cane to walk wasn’t something Anduin suspected to be possible. Luckily Brugoch seemed to have accounted for this by supplying him a belt made from furs. Anduin looped it three times around his waist before securing it and turning his attention to the spear shaft.

It was certainly tall enough to be useable. Maybe too tall, even. And it looked sturdy, built as it was from a solid length of smoothed wood. It would work, at least for the night, but wasn’t ideal. Securing the cloak around his neck, ignoring the uncomfortable press of the clasp against his throat, Anduin pulled up the hood to hide his gilt hair. It dropped into his eyes.

It took him five attempts and a great deal of energy to pitch himself up off the pallet and onto his feet but Anduin managed it eventually. His weight falling heavy against the improvised cane and nearly causing it to slip out from under him. Gasping a few times to catch his breath and calm his racing heart, Anduin started the slow process of hobbling across the room to the door and pushing aside the fur.

Shadepaw’s head shot up from where he was lying against the stone floor in the far corner of the front room, tail thumping hard against the ground and pink tongue lolling from the side of his mouth. His fur was damp, likely from having the blood washed out. Brugoch was standing not far from the door and looked over as he limped into the room.

“They don’t fit.” He said with a sigh. “I’m not surprised. My son was fairly average for an Orc, but you’re very small. Still, it’s better than what you had on before.”

Anduin nodded, uncertain if the Orc could see the motion beneath the cloak’s hood. “Thank you. For the clothes and the cane. And for treating my leg.”

“Think nothing of it.” He said. “It’s clear from earlier that you have quite a tongue. No matter what happens up there do _not_ use it. Keep your head down and do whatever you can to avoid attracting Gul’dan’s attention. He’s a monster, truly, and even if you do have the Draeni’s ‘Light’ you’re in no state to be in conflict with him.”

“Even if I were strong enough to face him I wouldn’t want to. It isn’t in my nature to look for fights.” No, he preferred words over weapons but wasn’t naive enough to think that anyone connected to the Burning Legion could be reasoned with.

“Good. I want you back here alive tonight to finish resting.” Anduin nodded again though he had to wonder why the aged Warsong seemed so invested in helping him. It had to be more than just the fact that he’d saved his wolf. “The stranger should be coming to drag you away any minute now. It’s probably better to be waiting outside when he arrives.”

The sun had gone behind the mountains when Anduin hobbled outside, back lighting the jagged stone with a soft pink glow. Stars had begun to become visible in the highest parts of the sky where the pale blue of day had begun to darken into black. The temperatures had begun dipping into what could be considered cold and Anduin shivered. Removing one hand from the broken spear-cane to pull the over large cloak and shirt beneath it tighter around him.

“Gave you a stick to walk with, did he?” not having heard the massive Orc approach Anduin nearly leapt out of his skin, whipping his head around. Garrosh stared down at him, golden eyes glowing in the low light. “And gave you a cloak. Pity.” Thick fingers tugged on the hem of the overlarge cowl, almost pulling it off him and pushing the clasp uncomfortably against the soft flesh beneath his chin. “Your hair is your only attractive feature. But I suppose we can’t have Gul’dan taking notice. Can you see in that?”

“If I trip it won’t be because of the cloak.” Hopefully, if he did fall, he’d be able to get back up again. “Why do you want me to come, Warchief? My mana is still very low and I won’t be of much use.”

“I’m not hauling you up to the rise to be ‘of use’, little lion.” He said. “I’m having you hobble to the top of that rise to make it explicitly clear how little chance Azeroth stands before us. You’re going to witness us do something your father _never_ could.”

“Outsmart…a Warlock?” though he hadn’t heard any stories of the sort Anduin was rather sure that his father, warrior and military leader that he was, would indeed be capable of outsmarting a Warlock if he ever found himself in such a situation where he needed to do so. Of course, he knew better than to voice that fact.

Garrosh’s laughter was rough and growling. “Outsmart a Warlock? Yes, we will be outsmarting a Warlock but that’s not what I want you to witness.” He said. “When Gromm denies the Blood of Mannoroth the Pit Lord himself is bound to make an appearance. And you will watch us slay him.”

A Pit Lord? Mannoroth? Was he insane…well, there was context to suggest that yes he was in the wake of the whole ‘heart of an Old God bolted to the ceiling’ incident but by the Light this whole enterprise struck Anduin as something that wasn’t a good idea. Pit Lords were supposed to be massive. It would take siege weapons to even stand a chance against one, and though he knew that the ‘True Horde’ had been possessed of certain explosive technologies Anduin didn’t see how the Dragonmaw could have managed to smuggle anything of the sort along with them into an alternate timeline on such short notice.

Unless it wasn’t as short of notice as he thought. Was it possible Garrosh stopped to consider, even for a moment through his Pride-possessed haze, that he might be beaten? Anduin doubted that to be the case: during their handful of conversations throughout the process of the trial he’d never once struck him as particularly self-aware or as one prone to thoughts of failure. The escape had to have been largely organized by someone else then: Kairoz or Wrathion. Though he preferred to think that it had been mostly Kairoz and that his friend had simply gone along with it for some reason connected to the wellbeing of Azeroth.

Either way, considering the fact that Kairozdormu was currently in the process of being transmuted into a cloak, things hadn’t gone the way the Bronze Dragon had hoped.

“How quickly can you hobble along?” Garrosh demanded, pulling Anduin from his thoughts.

“About walking speed.” Anduin said. “I may end up at the back of the group but I won’t be left behind.”

He grunted. “Fine. Stay out of sight of the Warlock but make certain you’ve a clear view of things. I want the memories of what the Iron Horde is capable of to keep you up at night in fear for your soon to be crushed Alliance.” Garrosh grabbed a fistful of his cloak and flung him forward; Anduin yelped in surprise and pain when he landed badly, narrowly managing to catch himself against his cane. “Walk.”

The deposed Warchief marched him impatiently around corners and down roads leading back towards the main gates of Grommashar Hold. As before, they remained propped wide to make way for the Dragonmaw, the Warsong’s wolf-mounted warriors and a small array of cart mounted vehicles: a grouping of rather generic catapults and something else which Anduin had never seen before. It looked like a massive wheel which was itself the size of a siege engine, thickly plated in iron and ringed in with large thorn-like spines. His eyes were round as coins.

“What _is_ that?”

“The pinnacle of the True Horde’s technological might: the Kor’Kron Iron Star.” Garrosh appeared pleased with his reaction of startled surprise. “It could do with improvements, but the Goblin that made it proved his worth well enough with its creation to be allowed to continue living in my city. Iron plated. Centrifugal engine. Highly explosive. It’s more than enough to allow us to take down Mannoroth. And upon our march on Azeroth a much larger one will be used to knock your castle to the ground. Take a good look, ‘Prince’.”

There were holes cut into the sides, dark in the machine’s inactivity but which would later glow a glaring orange red. Chains to either side attached to a pair of small engines which were no doubt used to wind it up for launch. An Iron Star: essentially, at its most basic level, a rolling bomb.

If there was one thing that he knew Goblins excelled at it was explosions, but did one of these things really have the power to take down a Demon as powerful as Mannoroth? Either way, it appeared he’d have a front row seat of the resultant spectacle.

“Everything is in order then?” Gromm called from the front of the group, watching their conversation while at the same time examining the Iron Star out of the corner of his eye. When Garrosh nodded, the Warsong’s leader turned to his clansmen and said “to the Throne of Kil’Jaeden!”

It was as Garrosh was turning away from him that the realization that he’d only ever heard the pair of Orcs referring to each other by their first names and in a tone of mild distrust occurred to him. Not the type of interaction he, who was so close with his own father in spite of their many differences, would think of as a very ‘familial’ relationship. He couldn’t help but wonder “have you told him? That he’s your father?”

It slipped out without much forethought, regrettably in retrospect. Hellscream spun around so fast that the momentum almost pulled him to the ground, eyes aflame. “Keep your mouth shut, runt!”

 _I’ll take that as a no._ Anduin thought, left pale and mildly bewildered by the outburst as he watched the Orc storm away. _But why? He seems proud enough of being who he is: a Hellscream. And of the Warsong Clan. He’s already told them about Azeroth and the fact that he time traveled to get here so what difference would it make? It seems like an odd detail to leave out._

He could attempt to pick apart the Orc’s psyche and reasoning at a later date-who knew, it might yield him something which could be leveraged to reach him or else used against him-but there wasn’t time for it now. The Dragonmaw and what few members of the Warsong Clan who were going unmounted had begun to move forward and if he didn’t start walking he’d be left behind. Gathering the train of the overlong cloak up in one hand so that it wouldn’t tangle around his ankles and trip him or get caught beneath the feet of the Orcs around him Anduin fell into step as best he could.

The terrain was as rugged as he remembered and difficult to navigate in the semi-darkness thrown by the dancing light of the torches. The rumbling of the siege weapons’ wheels drowned out the off-set three tap of his footsteps. The sun had disappeared completely now. The ball of his femur was rutting torturously against the socket of his hip and his arms strained from the effort of transferring most of his weight onto the improvised cane. The butt of the spear was slightly rounded and made it difficult to properly brace himself against the ground. Twice it almost came out from beneath him. Ahead, tinged blue against the night’s darkness by the rays of the moon, rose an oddly shaped grouping of rocks which Anduin assumed to be the mentioned ‘Throne of Kil’Jaeden’.

The siege engines were left some distance back from where the Warlock waited, half hunched beside a bubbling pot of some sickly green fluid. Not wanting to risk getting any closer, Anduin clamped the spear between his teeth and began the arduous task of dragging his tired body to the top of a large boulder. He could see the whole set of the scene from there and with the direction of the wind could hear-and smell, unfortunately-everything.

The green fluid must have been the Demon’s blood: it had been poured into a massive stone bowl and glowed and steamed despite the lack of any noticeable source of heat. It smelled absolutely indescribable and imprinted a bitter tang in the back of his throat which left him sorely tempted to expel the cup of water and mana potion which were all that currently inhabited his stomach. The Warlock was dressed in a dark, tattered cloak with a chain of skulls around his neck and held a wooden cup in his green hands. His face was hidden from sight.

When Gromm broke away from the group and approached him the Warlock dipped the cup into the abhorrent slime and held it up. The Warsong’s leader seized it with a snarl and bared his teeth, seeming even more offended by the stench than Anduin was. Being so much closer to its source, he couldn’t really blame him.

“Drink, Hellscream.” Gul’dan’s voice was…off. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was but something about his tone, his timbre, chilled the young Prince to his very core. “Claim your destiny. You will all be conquerors.”

Sweet temptations aimed at taking advantage of Orcish culture. A culture which had faded only somewhat amidst the Orcs on Azeroth. Gromm looked back at Garrosh, holding a torch and now wearing a hood though where it had come from Anduin wasn’t sure, and then back down into the cup. The smoking blood reflected off the rings through his nose and tusk. He looked back at the Warlock and lowered the cup.

“And what, Gul’dan, must we give in return?”

 _A fair question._ Though he already knew the Orc wouldn’t like the Warlock’s answer.

Apparently having suspected he’d be asked as much, or at the very least undaunted by it, Gul’dan reached up and lowered his cowl. Anduin was too far away to see what was uncovered but from the slight step back Gromm took he could safely assume it wasn’t pretty. “Everything.”

The Chieftain of the Warsong scowled and poured the contents of the cup back into the bowl. Gul’dan snarled, clawed hands clenching into fists, but Anduin’s attention had already shifted to the behemoth creature which had lumbered from the shadows on four trunk-like legs. Its cackle burned against his skin like fire, its voice the most unnatural thing he’d ever heard, and Anduin tucked himself down close against his perch on reflex in hopes of escaping the Pit Lord’s notice.

“You would reject this gift?” Gromm turned and looked up into the face of the towering monstrosity. Wings like a Dragon’s were spread to either side, each finger tipped in a ripping claw and curled menacingly forward. A ridge of spines ran down either side of its back and between them a mane of green fire blazed. Tiny glowing eyes swept dismissively across the gathered Orcs before it pointed at Gromm with its massive weapon. “And did you bring these mongrels here just to watch you die?”

It leaned forward, horrifying, smoke spilling from a mouth full of pike-like teeth. There was the click and squeak of wood from behind him as the catapults went off. An orange glow briefly passed above. Anduin looked up in time to see the flaming boulders sail through the air moments before the first crashed down just feet from Gul’dan. The Warlock was sent flying and the cauldron of Demon blood spilled onto the ground. The second impacted beside Mannoroth and the Pit Lord rounded on the siege engines and, by consequence, turned in Anduin’s direction.

For a split second their gazes locked and he felt as if death itself had grabbed him by the throat.

The Demon’s furious roar echoed off the enclosing rock. Smoke and flames billowed up into the starry sky. The catapults reloaded and launched again as somehow, over the cacophony of it all, he managed to make out Garrosh’s shout of “ _now_!”

The Dragonmaw who’d been blocking the cart which held the revved up Iron Star from view moved aside as it rolled forwards. The harpoons mounted to its front fired with a rattling clang. The chain strung between them went across Mannoroth’s chest as the tips embedded themselves deep into the stone behind it. Pinned, the Demon screamed in rage. Writhing in its binds as Gromm approached. But it managed to get one arm force and brought up its blade. Severing the heavy chain where one link met another.

Its forelegs fell back onto the ground with an earthshaking thud as it pulled its weapon back. Fel magic coalescing at the tip before firing off in a condensed beam, forcing the Warsong’s chieftain to leap aside. Rock shattered where the beam struck, heaving upwards and knocking the cart off course. It clattered against one of the wooden walls with a high metallic whine, spitting gouts of flame from the holes in its sides all the while.

Realizing what had happened Gromm ran towards it, narrowly avoiding Mannoroth’s continued efforts to strike him, and grabbed the back of the cart. Pulling it around and, in an impressive show of strength, flinging the star off.

It broke through the stone ground with an echoing crunch, wobbling madly and cutting a wild zig zag across the open space between the Warsong and the Demon. Ultimately launching off a stack of rocks and exploding into a massive plume of shrapnel and fire at the Pit Lord’s feet. The sudden brightness seared his eyes and forced Anduin to look away. The Demon recoiled but didn’t fall. He struggled to readjust his vision and when he succeeded he found the beast still standing but not for long. Though the explosion hadn’t even scratched the surface of the Pit Lord’s hide the conflagrating cloud had provided enough of a distraction for Gromm to take a flying leap and bury Gorehowl in its skull.

Mannoroth howled and reared back, flesh ripping apart around acidic beams of light, before his body exploded. Garrosh pushing Gromm out of the way just in time to avoid the brunt of the blast.

Anduin’s sight was slower to return this time and when it did it was to find himself pressed so close to the boulder he was on it were as if he were attempting to become one with the stone, the smell of soot in his nose and a trail of blisters rising along his cheeks. Mannoroth’s body was a heavy mound of crumpled wings and boney protrusions, his blood running in foul rivulets across the pitted ground. Garrosh had hold of Gul’dan who looked horribly shaken by what had transpired. No longer interested in what was being said and seeing no further need to stay out of sight now that the Warlock had been subdued, Anduin slid down off the boulder and hobbled closer.

It wasn’t exactly an everyday experience to find one’s self with the chance to get an up close look at a Pit Lord.

Aware of the holes which had been torn in his boots the young Prince picked his way carefully across the puddles of Fel blood until he reached relative safety just behind the fallen Demon’s head. Here he turned his full attention to the corpse and leaned a bit closer. Staring, enchanted, at the glowing green embers where its mane of fire had been. Cautiously reaching out to touch it only to quickly recoil with a hiss of pain, feeling as if he’d enthusiastically grabbed hold of a red-hot anvil.

Garrosh sent him a smug glare as he wrenched Gorehowl free of Mannoroth’s split skull, staring at the weapon for a brief moment before tossing it to his father. After sneering at the green ooze smeared across the blade Gromm raised it over his head. “We will never be slaves!” He shouted to a chorus of hoarse cheers. “But we will be conquers!”

This was not the Horde that they had faced in the first war or driven back in the second. Nor was it the Horde they’d battled time and again in skirmishes over land and resources. It wasn’t even the ‘True Horde’ they’d faced during the Siege of Orgrimmar. As he stood beside the slain body of Archimonde’s second in command it truly set in that the Iron Horde might not be something Azeroth was prepared to face.

For the first time since being dragged to Draenor unconscious and against his will by Hellscream, Anduin Wrynn truly feared for the fate of his world.


	6. Chapter 5

Garrosh, named Warlord of the Warsong Clan in the wake of the success of his plan to take down Mannoroth, had gotten his wish: Anduin’s sleep had not been restful, tormented by visions of Stormwind burning. He woke tangled up in the furs which had been draped across the pallet to keep him warm, newly minted rays of sunlight filtering in through the small window cut high into the building’s wall. He lay limp against the pallet for a long time, listening to the sounds of morning at Grommashar and the occasional gust of wind from outside. Unable to scrape together the will to sit up, let alone rise from the bed.

He missed his father, the other Alliance leaders and his friends both old and newfound on Pandaria. He missed the familiar smells of forest and sea and the calming sounds of hawking merchants and clanging harbor bells. He missed the white stones and colored roofs of Stormwind’s buildings and the soothing comfort which only his bedroom and his things could engender. He missed being able to do, within reason, as he wished but none of those things were what sapped his energy. What allowed hopelessness to wedge its spindly fingers beneath the door he’d formerly slammed shut in its face. It was the fact that, no matter what he did or how hard he thought or how many scenarios he ran through, Anduin couldn’t think of any action he could take to save his people. Even to simply give Azeroth a better chance. There was no way for him to send a message to his father or anyone else of what was coming and every direction he turned in ended in death for someone.

Movement from the direction of the doorway drew his eyes; the fur hung from the frame fluttered but no one was there. Anduin stared at it for an extended moment in confusion before he noticed the twitching, black nose poking out from the corner and overlarge paws sticking out from the bottom. Despite everything weighing down on him, the sight made him smile.

“Shadepaw?”

The wolf shuffled forward into the room on its stomach, not bothering to properly walk, and ungracefully wriggled up to the side of the pallet. Ears perked up and tail thudding against the floor. The riding wolves he’d seen briefly during peace talks or during his time as a captive in Pandaria had always looked so ferocious, between their size and their fangs, and that combined with the stories of attacks by the normal sized wolves in Elwynn had left him unable to imagine ever riding on one. But if, while not posturing and growling, they all acted like Shadepaw Anduin could get quite comfortable around them.

Still with some caution, and mindful of the blisters on his fingers left behind by the Pit Lord’s hide, he reached out to scratch the wolf’s muzzle. Shadepaw made a grunting purr and dropped his great head onto Anduin’s stomach, knocking the breath from the Prince in a rush. His attempts to push him away amounted to nothing; the wolf remained right where he was until he’d had his fill of being petted. Free at last of the not inconsiderable weight the Prince of Stormwind sighed.

Shadepaw dropped his spear-cane into hit lap and flopped onto his haunches, panting happily and drooling on the ground. Evidently he’d be allowed to lie in bed no longer.

 _It’s for the better I get up anyway._ He thought, pushing himself upright and dropping his legs off the side of the pallet. _I can’t let myself lose hope. Things will work out somehow, surely. I must believe that._

Little more awake than he had been the night prior but feeling considerably better and now with plenty of light to see by Anduin took the chance to familiarize himself with his surroundings. Though dampened by his circumstances his curiosity was still present and it pulled his eyes across the span of the wall. The room he’d been put up in was clean and altogether very bare; though the bare necessities of furnishings were still present the space struck him as one which hadn’t been lived in for quite some time. A large bowl of water had been placed in the corner, doubtlessly for his use once he’d woken up.

Anduin prepared himself for another struggle to get onto his feet but he only managed a couple of bounces before the wolf grabbed a gentle mouthful of the front of his shirt and tugged. Taken by surprise the Prince flailed, pitching forward and almost overcorrecting before finally managing to find purchase with his cane.

“Um,” Anduin said once he’d recovered and straightened his shirt. “Thanks.”

Shadepaw huffed, pressed his nose against the blonde’s brow and then claimed the vacated pallet as his own. Rolling his eyes at the wolf’s antics, he thumped over to the bowl of water and negotiated the difficult process of lowering himself onto his good knee.

His reflection wavered in front of him, grey-blue eyes outlined by the beginnings of black bags. Anduin had trouble recognizing his own face, etched as it was with exhaustion and misery. Blisters from the iron star’s explosion stretched red, irritated fingers over his cheeks. He could already tell scars would be left behind. His hair was whipped into a snarl of tufts and tangles, darkened with dirt and grease. The bowl was, unfortunately, only large enough to wash his face.

 _I’d kill for a bath._ The water was pleasantly cool against the raised, heated skin of his face.

Drying his face on his shirt and picking up his cane, Anduin leveraged both it and the nearest wall to haul himself back onto his feet. Leaving the wolf behind him to sleep on the pallet he pushed aside the fur and poked his head into the front room.

Two more small windows sat in the same places on the wall here as they did in the room he’d left, shedding more light into the occupying items: a low table built from wood he didn’t recognize sat in the middle, and a similarly crafted shelf leaned against the wall. More furs had been spread across the floor for comfort and another hide hung over a second doorway which, Anduin suspected, lead into a second bedroom. Brugoch was nowhere in sight.

Shifting his grip on his cane the young Prince skirted the table and approached the shelf. Examining the spread of items which filled it. He was able, at least to a certain point, to recognize some of them: dried bundles of herbs, a mortar and pestle, a dull knife with a stone blade and bone handle. Medicinal supplies, meant for potion making and first aid. Anduin’s eyes were drawn to a collection of little figures carved from ivory: an Elekk, a wolf, a Talbuck, a two headed creature the likes of which he’d never seen or heard of and what looked strangely like a man with the head of a bird. Mindful of the delicate feathers he picked it up to get a closer look; wracking his brain for any creatures which would fit its description which he’d heard told of or seen in a book, but nothing came up.

“They must be native to Draenor.”

“And quite a menace they can make of themselves.” Brugoch came in from outside with a basket in his arms. “That’s an Arakkoa. They live in the Spires of Arakk, worship the sun and are prone to attacking ‘lesser’ races.”

“Arakkoa?” really? He’d seen drawings of them in adventurer’s journals left on the shelves of Stormwind’s library and they’d looked nothing like this. Maybe there were different types? “Did you make these? They’re…incredible, really. I’m terrible with my hands.”

“I’ve always had a certain fondness for craftsmanship. With the voices of the Elements having faded with age, that talents become my only use.” He said. “And it’s getting less useful every day. You don’t look like you slept, Anduin.”

The Prince sighed. “Nightmares.”

“At least you got some rest.” He said, placing the basket down with a heavy thud before lifting of the lid and pulling out the cloth wrapped object inside. “I’ll admit to not knowing what Humans eat. Nagrand Cherries are eaten by everything from Talbucks to Ogres so hopefully they’ll be sufficient.”

“To my knowledge Humans eat the same things that Orcs do. Though I’m not really certain about native foods on Draenor.” The ‘cherry’ that he was handed was the size of an apple, fragrant and covered in a dark red skin. For all he knew it would instantly kill him when he attempted to eat it but his stomach didn’t care, making as much clearly known with a loud groan. He felt his ears burn.

“Sit down and eat all you like.” Brugoch said, sitting down himself and unwrapping the cloth. Inside was a hunk of ivory from a tusk of considerable size, partially shaped into what looked like a crown. “There are a few matters we need to speak about and I’m sure you have questions.”

With the heavy cherry in one hand and his cane in the other Anduin lowered himself carefully onto the fur spread below the table opposite his host. Brugoch busied himself with a file and chisel. The Prince took a bite out of the cherry. Juice ran down his chin and he quickly wiped it away.

“Who is that for?” Anduin asked once he’d swallowed.

“For you. Commissioned by our new ‘Warlord’ for use as a prop in humiliating you. He plans to have you renamed and properly crowned ‘Iron Prince’ at dusk in a mockery of your people’s traditions.” Brugoch shook his head. “What he’s done to you already is deplorable: there’s no honor in doing this to a warrior, let alone a child. I’m old enough to remember Gorian enslavement. So is Gromm. That he would allow this…what is there to make us better than the ogres now?”

Gorians? The Orcs had been enslaved by ogres once? How had that happened when the gap between the intelligence of the two races was so wide? Enslavement? Was that truly what his situation was? Anduin wasn’t sure if he believed that or not. He was a trophy. Set, it seemed, to be used like a toy for Garrosh’s amusement. A humiliating, miserable existence sure but considering himself a ‘slave’ still seemed…a bit of an exaggerated label.

He didn’t know what to consider himself.

“What attacked Shadepaw?”

“Sabreon.” Brugoch said. “Cat-men, little more advanced than beasts and prone to eating anything that moves. Including Orcs. Nowhere on Draenor is safe from them.”

From the look of the injuries he’d seen ‘Sabreon’ were very large and possessed of quite the impressive set of teeth.

“You didn’t need to help me.” Anduin said, turning the half-eaten cherry in his hands. The pit glinted against the dark flesh like bone. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I’m curious…why have you done so much for me? All I did was save your wolf.”

“Shadepaw is a bit more than just a wolf, Prince Wrynn.  He’s all the family I’ve left and belonged to my son.” He said. “What do you know about my people?”

“A fair amount.” Anduin said. “You view honor as incredibly important. Shamanism is deeply embedded in your traditions. You live in close knit clans who war with each other as often as you work with each other. And family is the center of your lives.”

“’A fair amount’ indeed.” Brugoch said. “Yes, family is everything to my people. And I’ve lost mine. My mate died of Red Pox when my son was young. I raised him alone as best I could, always wishing that he would have a happier life. A mate who would survive. Children who would be strong. He was only a few years older than you are now when he went out on a hunt with Shadepaw and some other younglings: a Rylak carried him away.”

That was why: his son had been near Anduin’s age and Shadepaw had been all he had left of him. The last traces of distrust and concern for his motivations faded beneath a well of sympathy. “My father’s father, Llane, died years before I was born. I never got to know him.” He said. “You’ve done so much for me already and I’m really very grateful. Would you mind…if I called you grandfather?”

Brugoch smiled, setting both his tools and the half-shaped crown on the table. “You may call me whatever you wish, Anduin. If it will bring you some comfort I won’t deny you that.”

At least there was someone he could trust, to some degree. A safe place among the Warsong, away from Garrosh, where he could relax. It likely wouldn’t last long, but the respite was never the less welcome. “You mentioned the Elements earlier. I take it you’re a Shaman?”

“I am. When I was younger and could still clearly hear their call, I was a Windcaller of some power. But healing magic was never something which got along with me particularly well.” He said. “Even back then I wouldn’t have been able to save Shadepaw. Old as I am I’ve never interacted much with the Draeni or their ‘Light’; what’s it like to wield such a power?”

“Well, I’m not entirely certain how to compare it to wielding the Elements.” He said. “Do they really speak? Like you and I are doing now? Or is it more of a metaphorical thing?”

“Kalimag is the language of the Elements, spoken by the Elementals whom Shaman like me ask for aid and aid in return. So yes. They do really speak.”

Well, that was certainly an enlightening bit of information though in retrospect Anduin supposed it made sense. “The Light doesn’t ‘speak’ but it does communicate in other ways. With feelings. With emotions. Visions, even, sometimes. It’s a…spiritual relationship. My people, in some ways, see the Light in the way that yours do the Elements: we worship it, call on it for help and comfort and protection.” He said. “The Void is what speaks. It whispers. Promises things which always end badly. While I trained under the Prophet Velen he told me that all Priests hear it eventually, the Shadow, and that some follow it. I haven’t yet and I’m terrified of when I will: it’s bound to happen sooner or later, given how much I’ve used the Shadow recently.” It had all been necessary at the time, but he still felt guilty about what he’d done. In the wake of his history with Katrana Prestor, mind controlling someone wasn’t something he took lightly.

“You were trained by the Draeni’s leader?”

“Not this timeline’s version, but yes.” Anduin finished off the cherry and set the pit aside, fingertips stained scarlet. “I studied under him in the wake of a world shattering event we call ‘the Cataclysm’. My father…he wasn’t pleased. We’ve mended our differences but…” without realizing what he was doing the blonde rubbed the arm the King had grabbed with overzealous force during the argument which had followed. “He’d always hoped I’d be like him. A warrior.”

“We all have our callings. A sword may be a warrior’s tool but a staff can just as easily be the tool of a hero.” Brugoch said. “Gromm’s skill with Gorehowl alone isn’t what made him the leader of my Clan. Nor, I’m sure, is your father’s skill his reason for being made the leader of your people.”

“No, that would be his blood. As my blood has made me his successor.”

“It would seem there are some cultural differences between us.”

Anduin nodded, smirking. “Yes.” He said. “It would.”

A comfortable silence fell, punctuated by the outside ambience and the scrape of metal on bone. The block of ivory had been almost fully shaped into the crown’s rough form, sharp and sloping like the peaks of a white mountain. Setting the chisel and file down on the table, Brugoch held it out to him.

“If you’re going to be forced to wear it, it may as well fit properly.” He said. “Try it on.”

The ivory was much heavier than his silver circlet had been. Hard and cold, it rested snug against his temples. Anduin handed it back.

“What is the symbol of your Alliance?”

“A lion.” He replied without thought before realizing that lions might not exist on Draenor and elaborating “a giant golden cat with a mane and a plumed tail.”

Brugoch nodded and wrapped both the crown and tools in the cloth. “I’m sure that, by now, you’d be glad for a bath?”

“Very.” He said.

“There’s a pool not far from here; I’ll take you to it.” He said, getting up from the table. “Shadepaw!”

The wolf came trotting out of the back room a moment later, announcing his arrival with a whining yawn.

“You’ve ridden before?”

Anduin nodded. “A horse. Never a wolf, at least baring last night but can it really be considered ‘riding’ if I was half conscious?” Shadepaw pushed his head against Anduin’s chest and almost knocked him flat. “Am I going to be riding him?”

“I thought it might be easier on you.” He said, helping the Prince to his feet. “It’s plain that moving causes you considerable pain. At this point it’s better you not strain yourself beyond necessary bounds.”

Anduin couldn’t argue that walking, even with the cane and only for a short distance, was incredibly painful. If there was a way in which he could avoid having to put himself through it he’d take it. Problem was wolves didn’t seem to come with saddles or stirrups which he could use to drag himself up onto Shadepaw’s back and even lying down the wolf was a bit too large for him to effectively throw his leg over his body.

The answer to his difficulties came in the form of the ruff of fur between the great canine’s shoulders: luckily tugging on it didn’t seem to cause the Wolf any amount of pain.  Shadepaw’s rise to his full height was far more graceful than that of a horse from the same position and only barely jostled his leg. Holding his cane in one hand, he gripped the wolf’s pelt with the other. Shadepaw turned his large head around to peer at him briefly before snorting and turning back, apparently satisfied with the security of Anduin’s perch. He started towards the gates of Grommashar at a lope with Brugoch walking along beside him.

How long would he be held at Grommashar? Long enough that he’d find any use from familiarizing himself with his surroundings? Anduin doubted it. With all likelihood he’d be there just long enough to be knocked once more off balance when Garrosh decided to move on and set his sights on Azeroth. Still, at the very least, exploring might offer something beyond his situation for his mind to focus on. Even tired as he was Anduin didn’t want to rest, concerned he’d again find himself teetering on the razor’s edge of depression. If he fell off it and gave in, sank into that same seeping darkness he’d seen his father suffer through in his earlier years, Anduin might as well be signing Azeroth away himself.

If he gave up looking for a chance things were as good as over. There had to be some chink in Garrosh’s uncompromising nature and demand for revenge into which he could dig his fingers and tug until he managed to get through to him there might be another way. Another road. It didn’t look like change was possible but surely that was just his half-blind, mortal misconception. The Light would find a way to heal whatever mental wounds, whatever pain, had made Hellscream the way he was now. It had known, even when he had not, how to excise the mutation caused by the crash of the Exodar while he’d helped to clean up what remained of the twisted wildlife during his time on Azuremyst. Had redeemed countless others far further gone than the fallen Warchief was.

Garrosh was angry, not evil, and there had to be _something_ Anduin could do.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the roar of falling water; just visible through a thin stand of trees, rimmed in by a bank of loose stones, was a glittering blue pool fed by a frothing waterfall.

“Nothing dangerous lives in that pool and if anything is lurking around Shadepaw will know about it before you find yourself in danger.” Brugoch sat down heavily against the trunk of a tree and resuming work on the crown. “Take your time, it’s still early in the day. You won’t be missed until closer to evening.”

Nodding, Anduin prodded the wolf gently forward and continued through the trees. Gravel crackled beneath Shadepaw’s large paws. Mist from the waterfall pressed against his blistered skin, rubbing itself against his face and arms like an attention seeking cat. Sunlight reflected off the rippling surface, casting broken shards of blinding white flashing about like startled fish.

Cane in hand, he slid off the wolf’s back and onto the ground. Stumbling slightly before catching his balance and pulling off his borrowed clothing, leaving them folded up on the ground. The water, as Anduin quickly found out, was almost bitterly cold in sharp contrast to the humid relatively warm air of the Nagrand morning. He edged in up to his waist and waited for his body to adjust to the conflicting temperatures, toes curling against the silty bottom.

Ignoring the chill, Shadepaw crashed enthusiastically into the pool after him. Frolicking about in the semi-shallows. Anduin turned his attention to washing himself off the best he could, scrapping his skin clean with his broken nails and scrubbing at his hair until it was free of dirt and oil. Dunking his head under the water’s surface and opening his eyes. Watching golden sunlight filter through its surface and the gentle waving of the aquatic plants which grew from the bottom, circled by small fish which could have been anywhere. And, for that quiet moment, Anduin truly could believe that it was anywhere. Or, more specifically, the lake behind Stormwind City where Deathwing’s jaw hung on the far bank and at the center of which sat the Earth Shrine.

The moment was broken by his lungs’ insistent plea for air. Anduin resurfaced with a gasp of air and flipped back his soaked fringe, blinking cold droplets out of his eyes. Cottony white clouds drifted silently overhead. Shadepaw let out a gleeful bark, following Anduin out of the water and shaking out his fur. Spraying the already soaked Prince down with a fresh rain of chilling droplets.

 _If only drying off was that easy for me._ He thought, feeling somewhat jealous as he squeezed what water he could out of his hair and put his clothing back on. Though no longer dripping, the wolf was still damp and he could already tell that, by the time they made it back to Grommashar, his clothing would be covered with fur.

Not that there was any avoiding it if he didn’t want to hobble the whole painstaking way back. And, Anduin supposed, there were worst things in the world. Not to mention bigger problems for him to concern himself with.

“Done already?” Brugoch asked without looking up from his work, the scrape of the file against bone a constant presence beneath the sighing wind.

“There’s only so much washing one can do.” Anduin pushed his fingers through his damp hair. “And that water is a bit too cold to linger in.”

“It’d be more attractive later in the day, I’ll agree to that.” He said. “If you’d like to return to Grommashar Hold Shadepaw will take you back. If not you’re more than welcome to stay out here with me. We’ll find something to speak of and pass the time.”

He’d already come to the conclusion that exploring the Hold wasn’t worth his time and the thought of returning when the only Orc who treated him as if they were on equal footing wasn’t there didn’t exactly appeal to him. “I’ll stay here, then.” Anduin said, sliding down off the wolf’s back and into the grass. “If you’re certain you don’t mind.”

“Shadepaw is a good companion but hardly a conversationalist. So yes, Anduin, I’m certain I don’t mind.” Brushing away the bone dust, he held out the crown again. “A lion?”

Anduin took the heavy piece and examined the progress of the carvings. Far from finished but plain enough in their basic shape to be clear what they were, a pair of rampant cats with plumed fur had been shallowly etched into the ivory. Though it was obvious Brugoch had never seen a lion himself he was still able to make out what the animal was supposed to be.

“It’s beautiful.” Though that would be small comfort, if any at all, while it was being used as a prop in mockery of him. Anduin handed it back. “My circlet was plain by comparison, though it was made from lighter materials. And as for the Royal Crown of Stormwind…if it even exists I’ve never seen it. My father’s more a man for swords and armor than silks and furs.”

“And what are you a man for?”

“Me?” he repeated. “I’m more a man for peace than warfare. Humans are among Azeroth’s shortest lived races and all that I, all that my father, have ever known is death and fighting. I don’t want any other children to have to grow up under that pall, and the resources used to fund the constant fighting would be better served helping my people to live better lives…. But I suppose that’s another cultural difference.”

“My people are all tied up in honor and warfare, but our Clans are self-sufficient. We don’t need to worry that sending food to warriors will take it from others. I suppose I can’t fully grasp the way you feel, but it’s evident you care deeply for your people.” He said. “You’ve a good heart, Anduin.”

“Some good it’s done me.” His ‘good heart’ was precisely what had gotten him into this entire mess in the first place.

“You’re referring to saving that Stranger?”

The Prince nodded. “Vereesa Windrunner had lost her husband when Garrosh bombed the city of Theramore; with her sister’s help she poisoned his food but at the last moment she told me what she’d done.”

“And you stopped him from eating it.”

“By quite literally kicking the bowl out of his hands.”

“And you regret sparing him now?”

How many times would he be asked that question, and by how many people? “It wouldn’t have been justice.” Anduin said, ducking the matter entirely. “Just another crime to add to the list. If there was anything to be truly learned from that trial it was that none of us were innocent. Not really.”

“Even you?”

The blonde’s attempt to stare at his hands was interrupted when Shadepaw flopped down partially on top of him. Wincing from having his leg jostled he began distractedly scratching behind the wolf’s ears. “I’m set to be King once my father steps down or dies, and a King’s duty is to protect his people. Sometimes that means damning someone else’s. No one dies innocent in war, which is all the more reason to put a stop to this.” Not to mention the fact he couldn’t understand why the Alliance and Horde were even still fighting at all when, once one stepped outside the cycle of pride and anger and retaliation, they were the same. “Do you know anything about what’s going to happen with the Iron Horde? Where Garrosh plans to take them? How long it will be before they leave?”

“I haven’t been able enough to be privy to such information in almost a decade.” He said. “I’ve heard rumblings of Tanaan Jungle and tell of setting off around the end of the week but nothing concrete. I won’t be going with them either way.”

Anduin looked up, paling slightly. “Why not?” he’d already latched onto the only kind presence in his current predicament to a degree which thoroughly startled him: the Prince had heard of such sayings as ‘any port in a storm’ but had never thought much of them prior to now.

“Because I’m long passed the age I could be of any help invading your world. And because some must remain behind in Grommashar Hold to prevent the Gorians from occupying it.” Brugoch said. “I regret that that means leaving you to their mercy but nothing can be done. At least on the front lines you stand a better chance at being rescued.”

Anduin nodded, forcing memories of the exploding iron star and the images from his nightmares out of his mind. “You’re right.” He had to cling to hope that his fears were just that: fears and nothing more. That they’d turn out to be unfounded. That the Alliance and Horde would push the Iron Horde back and his father would whisk him safely back to Stormwind for an extended stay with absolutely no thought spared for ‘adventure’.

If he ever cared for adventure again Anduin would be shocked at himself. “Do you know what he intends to rename me?”

Brugoch glanced down at the blonde’s bad leg. “Kowu Sharpteeth.”

“Clever.” He drawled, voice dry. “Mock the cripple. Original. Absolutely scintillating wit!”

The aged Shaman chuckled. “Sharp _tongue_ would be better fitting.”

Anduin huffed, picking at the grass. “I had to sharpen something.” He grumbled. “Words can be weapons in the hands of someone who knows what they’re doing.” The only weapon he truly had. To the best of his ability, and given any opportunity, he had every intention of making use of it.


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get bad in this chapter: just a warning

They’d remained outside of Grommashar Hold well until midday before returning, Shadepaw thoroughly dry and Anduin equally thoroughly covered in shed fur. He’d managed to scrape the majority of the fur off of the front of his shirt by now and had spent a small handful of hours afterwards clopping painfully around the less occupied areas of the Hold solely for the sake of something to do. He’d been closely watched, which hadn’t come as a surprise, and had nervously permitted a handful of wolves of various sizes to come up and sniff at him, but hadn’t been impeded. He hadn’t seen Gromm, Garrosh or Zaela either which-though he had taken what action was available to him to avoid them-had come as some small measure of relief. Eventually, though, Anduin had run out of less traveled areas to putter around and with an hour left before nightfall had been left with a choice: return to Brugoch’s home or find some other, preferably out of the way, activity with which to busy himself.

That was how he’d ended up, through an altogether rather agonizing process at the top of one of the two guard towers located just within the gate. No one else was up there. The slanted roof blocked out the rays of the sun and regular gusts of wind kept the temperature pleasant and any insects which might have been about at bay. With some difficulty Anduin had negotiated the process of sitting down against one of the pillars which held up the roof, stretching his bad leg in front of him and allowing his good leg to dangle off the side.

From this height he could see for miles, all the way to the misty distorted peaks of the mountain range on the far side of Nagrand. At random intervals and forming stark shapes, stone jutted up from the rolling plains like pillars; he wondered idly how many of them were occupied by Sabreon. Silvered rivers cut serpentine paths through the emerald grass, followed by the graceful forms of red and blue Talbuck. A herd of stout, massive Elekk prodded their way placidly across open ground. A pack of wolves darted away into the shadows of a thick forest surrounding the towering form of what looked like a giant milky diamond twice the size of Stormwind Keep. Far to the east, barely visible in the distance, were the spires of what looked like a palace lit by the occasional pulse of violet arcane.

_The sun is setting._ He eyed the blazing orb peering out from just behind the mountains to the west. _I should be dragged off by one of Garrosh’s goons any minute now. Wonder who it will be._ Agokal? Resh? Zaela? Hellscream himself? One of the Warsong? As if summoned up by the turn of his thoughts heavy footsteps mounted the base of the tower stairs. _Whatever he has planned, Light, let it be over quickly._

With a heavy sigh Anduin scooted a safe distance away from the edge of the tower and underwent the awkward process of hauling himself up onto his feet by the use of his cane both arms and his good leg.  He’d managed to prop himself mostly upright by the time the footsteps reached the top of the tower and looked up to meet the harsh eyes of a Dragonmaw he didn’t recognize.

“Hiding from your crowning, ‘Prince’?” he sneered. “You’re expected at the top of the Hold.”

He could have attempted to justify why he was there, explain what it was that he was doing-passing the time, not hiding-but Anduin knew there wouldn’t be much point. It was little more than a waste of breath. Rising to the bait was doubtlessly what the Orc wanted and he refused to give him the satisfaction.

“I hadn’t noticed how much time had passed.” A lie, but he couldn’t bring himself to truly care. Anduin three-tap limped closer to the stair way. “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t keep the Warlord waiting any longer…I may need help with the stairs.”

The Dragonmaw’s growl made it evident that his assistance would not be willing.  For some reason that he couldn’t explain, the realization filled Anduin with a cathartic sort of amusement which had formerly been foreign to him. With the hand which wasn’t on the improvised cane he reached out for the staircase’s slanted wall and began the slow process of thudding his way down. Every time he had to put his weight on his bad leg pain shot up the side of his body. His arm strained from baring so much of his weight against the cane. He made it halfway down without incident before losing his footing and would have taken the rest of the stairwell head first if the Orc hadn’t grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.  As it was, he ended up sliding down a couple of steps which did little to help along his bad hip. There would definitely be bruises later but he didn’t have time to worry about that now.

While he’d spent time recovering in the Tavern in the Mists he’d been accompanied by two of the royal guard who, more than once, had had to assist him in going to and from the upper floor. The Dragonmaw made a poor impression of one of them now, grip iron tight as he dragged him down the remaining stairs like a badly behaved kitten.

“You walk from here!” He snapped, shoving Anduin forward and watching him stagger as he attempted to stop. Nearly pitching forwards over the top of his cane. Catching back his balance the best he could and aware that attempting to stall would only serve to make his captor angry, and his own circumstances worse, the young Prince immediately set about limping towards the top of the Hold.

He already knew that Brugoch wouldn’t be attending the spectacle which was certain to be made of him, on grounds of not wanting to participate in something he didn’t agree with. Beyond that Anduin expected that the entirely of the currently assembled ‘Iron Horde’ would be present to witness whatever Hellscream had planned. The Warsong. The Dragonmaw. A proper crowd to mock and shame him.

But that was fine. Words, in the end, meant nothing. Stares didn’t go beyond discomfort. Whatever embarrassment he was to be put through he’d endure with the serene humility expected of a Priest. He wouldn’t bow to his pride like Garrosh had and be reduced to a seething scornful thing poised to snap its teeth at anything which moved too quickly. No matter how much it rankled him he’d do what he was asked without complaint and put it behind him. Because this would pass, with time, just like everything else.

No one was out on the streets of the Hold besides them, not even any of the wolves, as the inhabitants had likely all gathered around the throne by now. Anduin didn’t see another soul until they reached the inner gate where another pair of Dragonmaw stood: they bared their teeth at him and give stilted bows. The Prince forced himself to spare them no acknowledgement, setting his eyes forward and holding his head high.

The Warsong and Dragonmaw had packed themselves into the circular space as best they could manage, leaving an open stretch of dry ground a few yards wide between them and the throne which stood at the center. Anduin had expected that he’d be made to sit in it-and he already knew, from having seen it before, that the Orc-sized throne would be much too large for him-while he was jeered at. Forced to wear a crown of ivory and made to give up his name and all of its attachments. Paraded as a figurehead for the cause of destroying his home and his people.

For that reason, he’d expected to find the throne empty when he arrived; when he noticed it was occupied by Garrosh’s hulking form the young Prince almost stumbled to a stop, thrown off. Thin hairs rising along the back of his arms and neck as something within him sensed, instinctually, that something was wrong. Things had taken an unexpected turn, and wariness prickled sharp across his skin as he limped to a stop before the throne.

“Come out of hiding then, ‘Prince’?” a sneering chuckle went up around the assembly of Orcs. Anduin kept his mouth shut and his expression submissively blank, showing nothing but presenting no challenge. “We’d begun to worry you’d show us up, brat.”

“I hadn’t meant to.” His voice didn’t carry far but more than a few who heard it parroted him in high tones. “I made the best time I could, Warlord.” It wasn’t the title he’d been told to call him but it was the title he now held among the Warsong so Anduin felt relatively comfortable nudging at that boundary. “My leg makes going up and down stairs exceedingly difficult.”

The Orc grunted at him dismissively. “Keen as you seem to be in using that leg as an excuse I see no reason not to name you for it: Kowu Sharpteeth!” Another round of heckling, louder this time. The only outward sign of Anduin’s thoughts on the matter, formerly expressed to Brugoch earlier in the day, was the slight twitch of one of the smaller muscles in his face. “A proper Orcish name for the first Orcish Prince.”

Because loving parents had the habit of naming their children some synonym for ‘gimp’. “I don’t see how I could ever be considered an Orcish Prince. A Prince of Orcs, perhaps, but I’m a Human.”

“The weak play with words because they can’t play with weapons. You’ll be a step closer to a half-breed by the time I’m done with you tonight.”

_How does he plan to go about managing that?_ Anduin knew there were temporary ways to change one’s appearance, advanced magicks known to Druids and Face-changer Mages and Glyphs of Disguise used by Rogues for espionage and assassinations, and that when exposed to Dark and Eldritch magicks as Samuelson had been a person could become an aberration but he was relatively certain one couldn’t suddenly ‘become’ half of anything simply on a whim. Be it their own or someone else’s.

Was Hellscream meaning to imply that the ‘step’ would be a metaphorical one? Would it be through something cultural foisted upon him by captivity? Some sort of body modification? Anduin hoped not: the young Prince would prefer to avoid ending up with any piercings or tattoos. Sure, the latter weren’t terrible to look at and he knew that some Humans got them as well but they’d only serve to cause problems if-when-he finally got back to Stormwind. And he didn’t want to take the time to properly consider what the process of embedding ink into skin entailed.

He had more than enough aches and pains to deal with as it was without adding phantom ones into the mix as well.

“Strip.”

It took a handful of seconds before the command actually registered on him and he jerked in surprise, eyes wide. Staring back into the golden gaze in confused incomprehension.

“What?”

The slam of Garrosh’s fist against the arm of the throne made Anduin jump. Wood and metal creaked as he leaned forward, the light of the burning braizers flickering off his tusks; juts of bone sharp enough to carve through flesh with ease, encircled at the base with rings of dark metal. “Strip.” He snarled. “Don’t make me repeat myself again, runt.”

Strip? As in take off all his clothes? In front of everyone? Why? What would that serve except to humiliate….stupid of him to wonder even for a moment what would motivate his captor to make such a demand. Of course it was to humiliate him. This entire farce was meant to be nothing more than one massive, drawn out blow to his pride-which he’d already determined to put aside as much as necessary-and his morals-running around in a state of advanced undress, let alone in front of Orcs, wasn’t something condoned as good action by a member of the Church of the Holy Light-and his already shaky confidence in his appearance. He knew he wasn’t exactly much to look at, pretty face aside, with his build verging on so delicate it was untoward for a man and all that his mind immediately went to were thoughts of his scars.

Scars from Onyxia. Scars from the breaking of the Bell on top of him. They latticed his already pale skin like raised veins of silver on the walls of a mine and he’d never been comfortable with them. All they amounted to were reminders that he hadn’t been strong enough. That he’d needed, time and again, to be rescued by someone: his father, Bolvar, Broll. This was just another time. More proof he had a lot further to go before he’d ever stand a chance at being an affective king. If he was going to rule, he needed to be able to defend himself. Yet over and over when he truly needed to do so he failed.

Anduin took a deep breath to steady himself before reaching up and grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Pulling it up over his head with the rustle of fabric. Cold evening air hit the bare skin of his waist, raising gooseflesh in its wake as the breeze licked along his chest and stomach. He dropped it to the ground at his feet, shoulders curling inwards as eyes burned across his skin. He reached for his pants. Reluctant fingers curled around the waist band, and looked up. Hoping the act would be called off, but all he received was a glare. Clumsily, hindered by his bad leg, the young Prince stripped away his final piece of clothing.  Leaving himself naked and vulnerable surrounded by a heckling pack whose sole desire was to make him as miserable as they could.

He stood there, shivering, forcing his arms to remain at his sides despite how desperately he wanted to cover himself. Staring into the flickering fire of the nearest braizer and ignoring the hissed comments of ‘maggot-skinned’ and ‘rawboned’. Focusing instead on the beating of his heart. Ten steady taps passed before footsteps scuffed against the ground much too close behind him for comfort. A heavy weight dropped across his shoulders before he was spun around, rough hands securing the horn clasp at his throat. Anduin was too concerned with wrapping himself up in the cloak he’d been given and preserve some scraps of dignity to bother examining who it was.

Fine craftsmanship was more something he’d have thought to associate with Elves-Night Elves, Blood Elves, High Elves or any other sort-rather than Orcs but there was no denying that the article was at the very least on par with anything the tailors in Stormwind could have produced. It was clear that the Dragonmaw, as could be expected given the name of their Clan, were experienced with working with the material that they’d been given and if anything the finery made it all the worse.

The large golden scales of a Bronze Dragon gleamed in the light of the braizers, interlocked like chainmail and glinting a few shades closer to orange than Anduin’s hair. The inside was lined in the same soft white wolf fur which trimmed it. Warm and plush as it was it brought no comfort to the predicament but it did a good job of covering him and for that he was grateful. Cheeks burning, he ducked his face into the trim. The heavy, ivory crown was dropped onto his head; knocking hard enough against the top of his skull to make his vision go briefly white.

“Behold, the Prince of the Iron Horde!” The cloak couldn’t shield him from the jeers and false, shallow bows but having it was better than nothing so he kept himself held in that position. Eyes squeezed tightly shut. Shoulders bent and curled as he ducked down against his cane. Soft fur brushing against the bridge of his nose and the swell of his cheekbones.  “We’re not finished yet, runt. Far from it. Come here.”

Awkward, struggling to keep the cloak from slipping and reunveiling parts of himself he’d prefer weren’t on display, Anduin staggered across the last few yards of open ground. Coming to a stop at the base of the throne, knees almost butting up against those of the Orc seated on it. Warily observing him, uncertain of what to expect from the much larger male and almost painfully aware of the fact that he stood within arm’s reach. Garrosh had already proven himself more than capable of lifting him with ease and if he decided to do something physical there would be little he could do to stop him. The young Prince recognized the acrid taste lining his tongue as fear.

Fear. He was afraid. Because protection from death was little protection. There were far worse things.

“On your knees.” The Warlord growled, golden eyes pitiless and cold. “You’re going to put that silver tongue of yours to better use than prattling on about peace and praying to your ‘Light’.”

_Better use? What does he-._ Grey-blue eyes widened in shock and surprise when he realized that Garrosh had undone his belt and opened his pants. Like the rest of him his length was massive, so much so that Anduin couldn’t fathom how _that_ could  possibly fit inside of anyone without killing them: long and thick, the skin slightly paler than the rest of the Orc from lack of frequent exposure to sunlight and its underside threaded through with piercings.

_Use my tongue for…he wants me to…_ Anduin swallowed, squeezing his eyes briefly shut again. His insides squirmed with discomfort which he was certain showed through on his face. _I’ll just…I’ll just get it over with and then we can be done here. This is fine. It doesn’t matter. I’ll do this and he’ll let me go and I can forget it ever happened._ Painfully, leg protesting yet another transition from upright to kneeling, Anduin lowered himself to his knees. Cloak trailing across the ground behind him. Flames from the crackling brazier warmed his face. _This is the worst it’s going to get. Things won’t go any further. He’s already admitted that he hates Humans and that he doesn’t find me at all attractive and you don’t do **that** to people you don’t at least find attractive._

His hands were shaking and it was difficult to control his breathing. Anduin did his best to still them before resting one against a muscled thigh and leaning forward. Eyeing matters a moment longer before he reached up with his other hand and wrapped his fingers around it, unable to encircle the full girth. Cautiously increasing the pressure. Stroking upwards. Scraping his nails against ridged, hot flesh. The pad of his thumb rubbing over the piercings.

A sharp prod to the back of his head nearly knocked off the ivory crown and prompted him to lean forward. Darting out his tongue and running it experimentally along the side; grimacing at the unfamiliar taste of sweat and musk but he knew better than to pull back. Anduin would have to have had a serpent’s ability to dislocate his jaw at will in order to fit even the head into his mouth so he busied himself with what he could manage instead. Tracing his tongue along the dark lines of large veins. Fumbling with his hands with what he couldn’t reach. Uncertain if what he was doing was having any affect but hoping it was so that everything could just stop.

His efforts had managed to get his captor hard, at least. It couldn’t be much longer now.

He was pulled back by a strong grip on his hair which knocked his crown askew. Confused, uncertain if he’d done something wrong, Anduin opened his mouth but didn’t get a chance to form words before a thick finger was shoved inside. Taken by complete surprise, he spluttered around it.

“Suck, brat!” Garrosh forced his finger deeper into his throat, making him gag. In a futile effort to dislodge the source of the irritation Anduin’s tongue pressed back against the intrusion which only served to fulfil the given command. “You’ll be split open without some preparation but that can’t happen dry: I don’t want to damage you too much.”

Damage him? Preparation? For what? Surely he didn’t mean…no, he couldn’t! There wasn’t any way that he actually intended to do anything of the sort. It was a misunderstanding. It had to be. Even after everything Garrosh had done, all without even a single ounce of regret, he wouldn’t be capable of such an action. Heart thudding a rapid staccato against his sternum Anduin whined as the finger, slick with saliva, was removed.

“Don’t do this.” It wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. As the implications of his earlier comment set in Anduin’s mind reeled. It was a notion he simply couldn’t process. “Please. Please don’t do this.”

His pleas fell on deaf ears. Seemed to be what Garrosh wanted. The grip on his hair tightened and pulled him up off his knees. The clasp of the cloak pressed against his throat with a painful pressure as he squirmed. Clawing at the hand which held him to no affect as he was dragged up onto the throne. The rough fabric of the Orc’s pants scratching against the back of his bare thighs. He attempted to lurch away when he was finally released but Garrosh seized the cloak he still wore, gagging him against the clasp, and shifted his grip to his throat. Squeezing just hard enough to make spots appear in his vision.

His body stilled, eyes wide and burning, chest heaving with panicked breaths, only for his struggles to renew when the blunted tip of a finger prodded at his furled entrance and forced its way inside. Pain flared up. Anduin resumed squirming in a futile effort to escape, held back by the hand on his throat and his bad leg, but the motion’s only affect was to make the pain worse as the finger burrowed even further.  Tearing skin. Grinding against his tailbone.

_Holy Light._

His body was allowed only a marginal adjustment before the finger inside of him was removed. Just enough to insure major damage would be avoided while still remaining painful. His leg twinged as a tight grip wrapped around his hips and lifted him upwards.

_Help me._

Without a hint of mercy he was lowered onto something far larger. Pulled down without quarter onto something his body had to stretch in unnatural ways in order to accommodate. A wail ripped out of him before he could even think to stop it; a mix of a yelp of pain and a plea to stop which was so muddled it became unintelligible even to him. His vision blurred as tears spilled down his cheeks, crown tipping forward into his eyes even as his head was ripped backwards. Forcing his gaze up towards the staring moon.

_Make it stop._

He’d always been taught that the Light would protect him. That it was a force of good and of mercy and would offer help to those who needed it if only they asked. Yet when he reached for it there was no response. He could feel it, knew it was still there, but it was as if the Light were suddenly a million miles away. Desperately, Anduin cycled through every prayer he’d ever learned or heard or read about; the general prayers of a congregation, prayers of power, prayers of healing, strings of letters and sounds which weren’t even prayers at all in a desperate hope that _something_ would work. But nothing did.

_Why?_

Laughter hissed on the edges of his mind as darkness overcame him, a clamor or raspy voices following him down into impenetrable black.

He must have lost consciousness then because when Anduin next opened his eyes he was lying in his pallet back at Brugoch’s home, moonlight filtering through the windows and Shadepaw curled up on the floor beside him. The press of the wolf’s fur was warm against the bare skin of his arm where it protruded from the loose sleeve of his borrowed shirt. Had it all been a dream? Some horrible nightmare?

No, it had all been real. The pain which flared through him when he moved, and the bruises visible on his arms was proof of that. It had really happened. He’d been raped. The Light had turned its back on him.  It was all terribly, horribly, inconsolably real.

He shattered. Collapsing into tears, his already aching eyes beginning to burn again with salt. His wail making Shadepaw leap to his feet with his tail on end and ears laid back in surprise. How? How could this have happened? How could anyone be so hate filled, so vile, so…so…monstrous to be capable of doing such a thing to a child, Heir of an enemy faction or not? And the Light. Why hadn’t it helped him? Why had it ignored his pleas and left him to suffer?

Anduin could only think of one reason; the answer to that damned question everyone around him seemed so curious about. The confession he’d never wanted to make.

Shadepaw’s cold nose nudged against his cheek. The wolf jumped in alarm when Anduin slung his arms around his neck and buried his face in his fur.

“Anduin.” He flinched, accidentally inhaling some of Shadepaw’s fur when he gasped. Coughing violently he withdrew from the wolf and curled around himself. Shaking and staring straight ahead, trying and failing to focus on Brugoch while what had taken place hours before flashed behind his eyes. He could still smell sweat and leather and the smoke from the braizers. He gagged. “Anduin, do you recognize me?”

He couldn’t see straight. His head spun from lack of air as he struggled to breathe through ugly, wracking sobs. “Grandfather?”

“Breathe, pup. You need to breathe.” The aged Orc approached the pallet and held a cup out towards him. Anduin flinched again before slowly reaching out to take it; the scent rising up out of it was strong and herbal, far from appealing but at least it drove the memories away. “You’ve been through something terrible. This should help to calm you down.”

Anduin stared at his reflection in the bottom of the cup, rippling and distorted against the pale green liquid, and then knocked back the entire contents in one. Dribbles of it spilling over his chin and down his bruised neck. Burning his throat as it went down. Almost instantly, a warm fog began to fill his mind; tugging him back towards sleep. His eyes felt heavy. Sobs softened into sniffles. In the face of the potion’s effects he couldn’t stay conscious much longer; if he was going to confess anything he needed to do it now. Maybe then the Light would do something. Maybe then it would all go away and, through some miracle, he’d wake back up in Stormwind.

“I regret it.” Between the hitching of his breathing and the fact he hung on the edge of sleep his words were heavily slurred. “I regret it. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t intervened. It’s all my fault.”

“You couldn’t have foreseen this. All you’ve done is what you believed was right.” Brugoch directed Shadepaw up onto the pallet; stepping carefully around his legs, the giant wolf coiled around his still quivering form. “Get some sleep. You’ll be one day closer to rescue come tomorrow.”

Burrowing his tear-streaked face into Shadepaw’s warm pelt, Anduin sank down into a mercifully dreamless sleep.


End file.
